


It Will Be Fun, Trust Me: Fictober19 Ficlets

by molieretzu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol use (minor), Antiquing, Aziraphale has a hissy fit, Aziraphale has a sensitive palate, Aziraphale is a master of the subtle smoky eye, Aziraphale likes being fed by Crowley, Beelzebub and Gabriel are sneaking around canoodling, But they don't like him, Camping, Casual marriage proposal, Comfort Food, Correct terminology for each other is important, Crepes, Crowley likes animals, Cuddling, Ducks, Face Painting, Fluff, French pastry crises, Galen (historical figure), Gen, Gift Giving, Gossip, Gratuitous Pet Shop Boys references, Halloween, Happy Ending, Having a full and complete life of your own doesn't keep you from missing loved ones, Implied cruelty to pasta dough, Improbable encounters with god, Knitting, Ligur did obscene cross stitch, London pigeons are rather assertive, Love Languages, Low-key married, M/M, Minor gender role bigotry from minor character, Peer neglect, Peer rejection, Petronius was a real person btw, Plants, Shameless insert of author's own dog, The Dowlings are horrible parents, The silly joy of getting dressed up, The unbearable agony of tenderly but firmly being fed soup, Village fete, Visits from old friends, Wing Grooming, With one special exception, and probably in a not-PG way but we're not going there right now, fictober19, food prep, glamping, impatient Crowley, in a PG sort of way, lonely crowley, obligatory Roman oyster scene, rated teen for minor swearing, talking to plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-16 14:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 28,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molieretzu/pseuds/molieretzu
Summary: My Crowley/Aziraphale ficlets from Fictober19.Ch. 1: Aziraphale tempts Crowley to a village fete. Games! Prizes! Face painting! Foodstuffs onna stick!Ch. 2: Crowley promised Aziraphale profiteroles from the best bakery in town, but they're closed. No substitute profiteroles are acceptable, because his angel Could Tell, and there would be *leftovers.*Ch. 3: Soup.Ch. 4: Obligatory Roman oyster scene.Ch. 5: Crowley and Galen hold a symposium.Ch. 6: A most unfortunate cookery class.Ch. 7: Crowley challenges Aziraphale to a blindfolded taste test.Ch. 8: Aziraphale goes to collect Crowley's newest plant.Ch. 9: Crowley pets a pupper.Ch. 10: A book auction with dire consequences.Ch. 11: Contractually obligatory crepes scene.Ch. 12: Fluffy camping trip.Ch. 13: Crowley's present has a hidden backstory.Ch. 14: Eric the Disposable Demon spills the tea.Ch. 15: Antiquing and coziness.Ch. 16: Obligatory wing grooming + bad memories.Ch.17: After an annoying customer, Aziraphale needs comfort food.Ch.18: Warlock comes to visit.Ch.19: Stitch & bitch in Hell.(out of space; nonsense continues)





	1. The Village Fete

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Fictober19 writing challenge. I doubt I'll be able to post for all the prompts within 31 days, but I'll post as many as I can finish. These are not going to be incredibly polished, even by my standards, so brace yourself.

“It will be fun, trust me.”

It was not fun. It was about as far from fun as a very unfun thing. Reporting a failure to Beelzebub unfun. Hanging out with Hastur unfun. 

It was _village fete_ unfun.

There were too many people. They were everywhere, like especially large and solipsistic ants that liked to stop right in front of Crowley and block every possible path that could bypass them. He had tried to alleviate some of the press with some minor temptations:  _go cluster around that one stall that had a sign saying “sorry: sold out of chicken onna stick” and then complain because they were sold out; go try that rigged game of hoopla and keep trying because your luck will turn any second now, promise_ . Anything to get them away from him and out of his path.

“Isn’t this just lovely?” Aziraphale wandered back over and offered his candyfloss for a taste; except for the cancerous pink color, it looked as if someone had stuck the angel’s own hair on a stick and then teased it into a 1950s beehive.

“What is it with humans putting food on a stick? They’ve got perfectly good hands, opposable thumbs and everything. Why does everything edible eventually wind up on a stick?”

“Because it’s fun, dear.”

“You and your _fun_.” Crowley squinted at the beaming angel from behind his sunglasses. “Wait, that rainbow. It’s new.” He groaned. “Please, angel, tell me you didn’t get your face painted.”

“Very well then; I won’t.” Aziraphale plucked off a huge wad of candyfloss and crammed it in his mouth. 

“Face painting is meant for the kids.”

“Face painting is for anyone who wants their face painted.” It was a dinky little rainbow, aggressively cute, with clouds and glitter paint.

“Oh? So how many others in line with you were over the age of eight?”

Aziraphale pretended to consider. “I’ve no idea. You know how hard it is to tell humans’ ages.”

“You are such a dork.”

“Takes one to know one. Oh, thank you, my love,” he added as Crowley brushed off a bit of candyfloss stuck to his cheek. “Shall we investigate the games stalls?”

Aziraphale turned out to be remarkably good at quoits, but also rather vocal; Crowley stood off to the side and pretended he wasn’t with the excitable blond who yipped and wiggled every time the ring landed home and groaned every time it missed. 

The extra distance also placed him ideally for eavesdropping.

“But mum,” a small, sticky boy complained nearby, fumbling with his prize tickets, “I don’t want the car. I want the unicorn.”

A woman with a severe and tackily bleached haircut, presumably the boy’s mother, frowned. “Unicorns are for girls, Rupert. Look, it’s got a pink horn and everything. He’ll take the nice toy car,” she added to the stall’s attendant.

Crowley couldn’t help himself: he snorted. This earned him a glare and a “Mind your own business,” from the woman. 

Like that was going to happen. “Unicorns are for everyone. Who doesn’t like a big horse with a great fuck-off spear on its head?” Technically, Crowley didn’t, not being terribly good with animals in general and equines in specific, but he wasn’t going to let casual sexism and fake gender roles just slide.

“Language! There are children present.” The woman’s lips thinned disapprovingly. “And how I parent my fucking child is none of your bloody business, you goddamned prick.”

Rupert sadly accepted the toy car from the attendant. As his mum led him away, shooting vicious glared over her shoulder, the boy snuck a cautious wave at Crowley and mouthed “Thanks for trying.”

Crowley gestured back, combining a wave and a snap. Rupert’s astonishment when his toy changed into something much more pointy and equine, and the delight on his little grubby face, were disgustingly cute. 

Still, the kid deserved it. Crowley had made sure the mother would definitely notice the change but find herself inexplicably incapable reacting negatively outside her own bigoted head. It would just fester and niggle and annoy her — and, just maybe, it would gradually sink in that her son was still the same person with or without the unicorn, and that gendering toys was even stupider than when humans tried to define iron-clad gender roles. 

Or maybe she’d just be lightly tormented. A win, either way. If Rupert remained unaware of his mother’s continuing disapproval, that wasn’t Crowley’s fault: just a side effect.

He only realized he was smiling when Aziraphale finished his game. “See, I told you you’d have fun. You should see your face! Look, I won a bear!” The bear in question had a little bow tie, though thankfully it was not tartan. Yet.

Crowley knew he’d be the one carrying the stupid bear around, but he couldn’t quite regain control of his face. “It’s not so bad, I guess. Hand over the bear, angel, and let’s see what other fun we can get into. Maybe I’ll get my face painted, too.”


	2. The Profiteroles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has promised Aziraphale profiteroles from this exact bakery, but they're closed. Faced with the possibility of disappointing his angel, he finds help from an unexpected quarter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is completely silly and canonically unlikely, but I had to fill the prompt "Now? Now you listen to me?" and this was the idea that entertained me the most.

****The bakery was closed.

This was a disaster of epic proportions.

Okay, maybe not epic compared to the failed Apocalypse, but by the standards of their comparatively cozy life now that both Heaven and Hell had scratched them off their posting lists, it was pretty bad. He’d promised his angel profiteroles from this exact bakery, and they were closed.

He’d failed Aziraphale.

Crowley knew he could miracle some profiteroles just as well as the next supernatural entity, but food miracled from scratch never tasted entirely right. Miraculously multiplying it from an existing sample worked great (see: bottomless bottles of wine all those nights in the bookshop’s back room, or Yeshua’s deal with the bread and the fish), but without a template to clone it was next to impossible to get all the countless chemical structures and proportions right, and any deviation was glaringly obvious.

Trying to pass off profiteroles from any other vendor would be pointless. His angel Could Tell. He wouldn’t reproach Crowley directly, of course, if presented with substandard profiteroles; he’d graciously tuck in, but his heart wouldn’t be in it. His appreciative moans would be hollow, forced for politeness’ sake. He’d pout, when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking. There would be _leftovers._

“Oh, God, Satan, whoever,” Crowley groaned, hitting his head on the Bentley’s steering wheel.“I fucked up. Help.”

There was a gentle tapping on the car window. “All right in there?” A woman’s voice, firm but gentle, warm.

Crowley rolled down the window, collecting himself. “Sorry. Just didn’t realize they’d be closed this early.” He couldn’t quite see the woman clearly, but she must be a bakery employee or something. She smelled like vanilla, and buttercream, and, inexplicably, home.

“Looked like you were pretty upset.”

“I’d just promised a friend I’d bring him profiteroles. He’ll be so disappointed in me.”

“Well, we can’t let that happen, can we?” Kraft paper crinkled as she proffered a sack; the skin around her eyes (what color were they? Why couldn’t he get a clear impression of her face?) crinkled as well, albeit more quietly.

Cold radiated through the bag as he took it; peering inside, Crowley realized it was the ice cream. There was a smaller carton that, from the drips, must have contained the chocolate sauce, and another bag that smelled like puff pastry. “Ngk?”

“Leftovers. I was going to take them home myself, but I think you need them more than I do.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Crowley struggled for words. “At least let me pay you —”

The woman laughed; it was reassuring, the sort of laugh you could sink into like a welcoming sofa. “No need, Crowley. I just hope Aziraphale enjoys them.” And before Crowley could unscramble his brain, she turned and walked away, fading as she walked.

For a long moment, all Crowley could manage was keysmash sounds. Finally, he sputtered, “Now, God? _Now_ you listen to me? _Now?_”

_Just wanted to help,_ came a voice in his head. It sounded amused.

“What about all the times I asked you for help before? For answers? What about the bloody Apocalypse?”

_You didn’t really need me then; you and Aziraphale were doing just fine on your own._

“I beg to fucking differ! Ma’am,” Crowley added, because swearing at someone who’d just given you profiteroles and also could smite you to component atoms was, even he recognized, not generally wise.

_Everything was going according to plan then,_ God’s voice assured him. _Now, though — you definitely needed help. I love Aziraphale down to his toes, but he can be a righteous bitch when his cravings are thwarted._ Her fond laughter faded.

Aziraphale was indeed delighted by the profiteroles, and pronounced them heavenly. Crowley decided not to tell him how accurate that was. The angel probably wouldn’t believe him, anyway.


	3. Soup Is Good Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 Prompt is "I know you didn't ask for this."
> 
> A friend mentioned that LOTR fanfics often liked to feature someone feeding soup to Frodo, which led to this messy bit of fluff.

Crowley flung himself against the bookshop’s door; the winter wind was trying to follow him inside, blowing enthusiastic puffs of snow over his booted feet. He eventually won, though it was a near thing.

“Ah, there you are, dear. I’m surprised you came out in this weather.” Aziraphale marked his place and set the book aside. “You look positively frozen, poor thing.”

“Ssssso cold. Didn’t think it would be so cold.”

“The immense snowdrifts in the streets didn’t give you a clue? Here, let’s get you out of those wet things.”

Crowley submitted meekly, too cold to help as the frosted scarf was unwound from around his face and neck, the sodden overcoat removed and hung up to drip somewhere safe, the flashy boots clucked over as not being suitable to this sort of weather and “didn’t he have the common sense God gave a goose” before they were set on old newspaper to dry.

He was guided to the sofa and wrapped in blankets. Aziraphale perched beside him, tutting and rubbing Crowley’s hands for warmth. “Really, darling, why were you out in this? Did we have something planned? I thought our next date wasn’t until Tuesday — have I lost track of time again?”

Crowley mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Missed you, angel.” He laid his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder; the angel was warmer than the regrettably tartan blanket.

Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. “I missed you too, darling, but freezing half to discorporation on your way over here is not a sensible solution. Ooh, I know just what you need!”

“Just need you, Aziraphale. Warm me up.”

“Later, there’s a good boy. I’ll be right back.” Up he popped and bustled into the back room. A few minutes later he returned, holding a steaming Cup Noodle. Correction: off-brand Cup Noodle, in an environmentally friendly cup with pictures of happy veggies on it. Still steaming, though.

“I only have instant, I’m afraid, but some soup is just the ticket.”

“Er. Not really a soup kind of person, angel.”

Aziraphale ignored him, sitting back down on the sofa and stirring. “I know you didn’t ask for this, but trust me: it will warm you up from the inside.”

“Rather have wine. That warms you up too.”

Aziraphale clearly wasn’t buying it; he also seemed very much to be enjoying himself at Crowley’s expense, the bastard. “Now, dear, you know that’s not true. Alcohol dilates the body’s blood vessels and makes you lose heat even faster. Soup, though, does not.”

“I don’t like soup.”

“Nonsense! You haven’t even tried it.”

“I like wine. Or scotch. Not on the rocks, though. Not right now—” The last word was hardly out of his mouth before something else came in. It was a spoon, bless it six ways from Saturday. With soup in it. He was about to spit it out, but the angle of Aziraphale’s eyebrows suggested that would be a poor choice. One way or another, the angel was determined to get the soup into him, if he had to do it with a funnel.

Crowley swallowed, but did it rebelliously.

“That’s my good boy. And again: open.”

Still glaring, Crowley obeyed. Actually, the soup was not half bad, savory and yellow and with bits in that were probably edible, and it did seem to warm him up. The angel was humming to himself contentedly, and avoiding all attempts to make him relinquish the spoon. Crowley could just _see_ him getting ready to say “here comes the aeroplane, open up the hangar!” and increased the glare’s wattage to ward off such nonsense. Just being fed soup was humiliating enough.

“There, now,” Aziraphale set the empty bowl aside. “Isn’t that better?”

“A bit. Still cold, though; just not as bad,” Crowley grumped. His middle was toasty, but the heat hadn’t reached his limbs.

“Poor poppet. You’ve been very good, eating all your nice, warm soup. Now we can finish the job.” Aziraphale slid his arms around Crowley’s blanket-shrouded shoulders, letting the demon nestle against the crook of his neck. After a moment, he snapped his fingers and handed Crowley a glass of rather pleasant chianti.

“Cuddles and wine. This is much better than soup,” Crowley muttered, wriggling closer. “Next time, just give me what I ask for, angel, okay?”

He could feel the angel chuckling. “I always will. At my own speed.”


	4. Every Word a Honeyed Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory oysters-in-Rome scene for Fictober19 prompt 6: Yes, I'm aware. Your point?
> 
> The chapter title is from Chapter 1 of Petronius' _Satyricon_, which you can read [here](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5225/5225-h/5225-h.htm#linkVOLUME_I.).

****Petronius may have been an absolute magician with oysters, but there was no way Crowley was going to try one. Not like that, at least: raw and slimy and looking like something Hastur might have coughed up. The rest of the menu was just as appalling. He made a mental note to take credit for the dormice in honey, lampreys, and stuffed sows’ udders in his next report to Head Office, and settled for a bowl of pomegranate seeds.

“Is that all you’re eating?”

“I like pomegranates, the way the seeds pop in your mouth. It’s fun.”

Aziraphale fretted. “But you must try the oysters! They’re the whole reason we came here.”

“Don’t worry about it. ’S fine. More for you, right? Just didn’t realize they’d be so . . . snotlike.” The angel huffed, and Crowley dipped a finger in the sauce dribbled over the half shells and licked it off, just to show willing. This apparently startled the angel, whose eyes went wide. “Sauce is good, though. The sauce is the whole point, anyway. Oysters are oysters; what’s special is what this Petronius does with them, right?”

“Er, right. I suppose so. Are you quite sure I’m not being a bad host, eating these all by myself?”

“Entirely sure, angel. I’ve got my pomegranate and my wine; no worries here.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” Aziraphale tipped his head back and let one of the oysters slide down his throat. It was one of the more beautiful sights Crowley had beheld. “Mmm! That is superb. You’re right: the sauce is amazing. Is that asafetida, do you think?”

Crowley took another fingertip of sauce and considered. “Maybe just a touch. Mostly I taste vinegar and dill seed. And mustard?”

“Yes, mustard, definitely.” The tips of the angel’s ears were pink, and his eyes flickered back to Crowley’s fingers. Another oyster was swallowed with almost undue haste.

Crowley had to get his mind off how the angel’s throat moved when he swallowed. “So what have you been doing with yourself when you’re not sampling the latest in patrician cuisine?”

“Oh, just helping out, as I can. Trying to influence the Imperial heir to good, primarily. Visiting the booksellers in the Sandalarium when I have time. Have you been there? It’s marvelous: so many books, so many people — even the authors, sometimes. There have been some lovely writers coming up lately, and I’ve been doing my best to encourage them.”

“Wait, were you involved in that business with Ovid a while ago?”

“Er. I’m afraid so. Things got a little of out hand there; most unfortunate. But I have high hopes for the new generation. Phaedrus, Seneca — apparently even young Petronius himself has talent, though I’ve heard he can be a little snarky. I haven’t had the chance to get to know him yet.”

“Just try not to get anyone exiled this time, angel.”

In between gulping down oysters in a most diverting manner and sipping the wine, Aziraphale excitedly dropped names of authors and orators and poets and rhetoricians he’d been working with, most of whom Crowley had never heard of. Three names were familiar from his own side work, though he knew better than to mention that. Aziraphale probably assumed he was involved in stoking the fiery public debates philosophers held, anyway; the easy temptations to wrath were too delicious to pass up. No need to rub the angel’s nose in it.

Besides, talking would divert precious mental resources that were better spent watching Aziraphale eat. The enjoyment, the bliss, the little moans of pleasure: all utterly fascinating, if weird as Hell — er, Heaven. Did all angels eat like that? Surely not.

After the last oyster disappeared, though, he couldn’t help himself. “You know the humans think oysters are an aphrodisiac, right?”

Aziraphale dabbed his mouth primly with the napkin. “Yes, I’m aware. Your point?”

“No point. Just wondered if you knew.”

“The humans believe all sorts of nonsense. What I believe is that those oysters were absolutely scrummy, full stop.”

“And I believe we should order another bottle of wine. Something Greek this time?”

“A person — or demon, or angel for that matter — should always have something to believe in. In this case, I believe I agree with you.”


	5. Those Who Are Enslaved to Their Sects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #7 for Fictober19: No, and that's final.
> 
> Crowley has a chat with Galen about some of the more preposterous medical practices the latter endorsed.
> 
> CW: nongraphic discussion of bloodletting and emetics; alcohol use

“So, what you’re saying,” Crowley swigged another gulp of wine, “is that you think you can diagnose someone simply by taking their pulse.”

Galen nodded, gesturing with his own cup as he reclined on the other triclinium. “It is a subtle art, but I am one of the few philosophers skilled enough in its practice.”

“With just your fingers?”

“What else would I use, my elbows?”

“I don’t believe you. There’s no way you could make an actual diagnosis just by feeling someone’s pulse. You could tell if they were scared or hurt or excited, maybe, but that’s just common sense. Your heart beats faster when you’re not calm.”

Galen looked at him pityingly. “There are as many different pulses as there are ailments, my friend. The pulse of apoplexy is low, slow, and weak; that of fever is low, fast, and weak.”

“You don’t need to feel the pulse to diagnose a fever — just touch their skin!”

“Ah, but is the heat on their skin that of a continuous, tertian, semitertian, or quartan fever? When will the paroxysm occur, and how often? This, only the pulse can tell you truly.”

“You are full of bullshit, and my cup is empty of wine,” Crowley pronounced. “The least you could do is fix the last thing.”

“Overindulgence is never the path to good health.” The human gestured for the servant to refill both their cups anyway.

Crowley snorted. “Neither is half the stuff you order for your patients. I heard the other day that you dumped sand all over someone’s bath floors and made this poor woman lie down on it all day. What was that all about?”

“Ah, the lady wife of Boethius,” Galen nodded calmly. “She suffered from a female flux, and the hot sand was necessary to dry her out.”

As someone who knew firsthand how all major variations of human genitalia worked, Crowley was pretty sure this was more bullshit. At least the woman had survived, though. “Hot sand, right.”

“And bloodletting, of course.”

“Galen, come on! Enough with the bloodletting already. You’re going to kill someone with that.”

“I have saved many more.”

“But blood — and I cannot stress this enough — blood belongs _inside_ the body.”

“Not when there is an excess. Overexertion, heat, poor diet: the liver does not always know when to stop production.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not the liver. But that’s not my point. My point is that slitting someone’s veins and letting them bleed a bit into a bowl isn’t helping anyone. These people are ill, they’re already weak; they can’t cope with losing even a little blood. You’ve got to stop, and convince your students not to do it, too.”

“No.” Galen frowned severely. “And that’s final. You mean well, my friend, but you cannot convince me that relieving patients of a surfeit of blood does anything except help them heal. It restores the bodily equilibrium, as the wise Hippocrates taught us. You might as well say that purgatives do not help with melancholia or excess anxiety.”

“They don’t! The last thing you need when you’re depressed is to puke your guts out.”

“What they need is to rid themselves of excess bile and phlegm. What better way is there than purgatives, followed by proper diet and mild exercise?”

“Dunno. How about . . . basically anything else? Have you ever tried exercising when you’re seriously depressed, or when your mind can’t focus on anything except your anxiety?”

“If there were anything better, the ancients would have told us, or I would have discovered it myself in my own researches. There is no more to be said on the matter.”

_Well, I tried. At least Hell will be happy: more human misery._ “Can you at least stop putting viper flesh in your theriac, maybe? I’d take it as a personal favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The title is from a quote attributed to Galen, “Those who are enslaved to their sects are not merely devoid of all sound knowledge, but they will not even stop to learn.”
> 
> Bloodletting remained a mainstay of Western medical practice well into the 19th century, despite having few proven medical applications, and caused much unnecessary suffering.
> 
> Theriac, or mithridatium, was a treatment for poisoning (very popular among Roman emperors, both the poisoning and the prevention thereunto) and a general health tonic; viper flesh was a common ingredient, on the principle that the body of a venomous reptile would provide protection against other venoms.


	6. The Unbearable Lightness of Gnocchi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #8 for Fictober19: "Can you stay?"
> 
> Crowley shows love through gifts and acts of service. When he signs Aziraphale up for a cookery seminar, things do not go as planned.

****It was his own fault, Aziraphale reflected. If he hadn’t lamented, in a somewhat wine-sozzled moment, that he knew nothing of cooking and had always wanted to learn, stopped only by fear of what Heaven would say when they learned he not only ate but prepared food from scratch, then Crowley wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have signed up his angel for a cookery workshop from a swanky culinary school on Wendell Road. Aziraphale wouldn’t have had to show up, and if he hadn’t shown up, he wouldn’t be trapped in a class with, of all people, Shadwell.

“Sergeant Shadwell! Fancy meeting you here,” Crowley said, a faint note of glee creeping in to his voice.

“Retired sergeant. Just Shadwell ‘ll do.” Shadwell crammed his fists into the pockets of his old mac, which was in as regrettable a state as Aziraphae remembered. “It’s been a while.”

“I never knew you were one for the culinary arts.”

Shadwell harrumphed. “Well, it’s jus’ a hobby, to keep meself occupied now I’m retired. And Tracy, er, appreciates it when I do a bit o’ cookin’, ye ken. Thought I might as well learn to make some o’ them fancy scran, keep her happy.”

“That’s,” Aziraphale blinked, taken aback, “that’s actually rather sweet, Mr. Shadwell. I hope Madame Tracy is well?”

They spent a minute catching up before running out of things to say to each other, and after a few more awkward minutes, Shadwell eventually grumped off to investigate the rest of the classroom. Aziraphale slumped with relief.

“Did you know he would be here?” he hissed, grabbing Crowley’s elbow.

“What? No, angel — I had no idea. Should be interesting, though.” He grinned broadly.

“_Interesting_ does not begin to cover it, my dear. What if we’re assigned to work together as partners? We have absolutely nothing in common. It would be extremely uncomfortable. Can you stay?”

“Oh, you couldn’t chase me away if you made the whole building holy ground. No way I’m missing this.”

That earned him a chastising frown. “I meant for you to provide moral support, not sit in the back smirking over my mortification, my boy.”

“Moral support, check.” Crowley kissed him, but the way his eyebrows tilted suggested that smirking was not entirely off the table. “I’ll just be in the back, watching.”

The fifteen other students ranged from giggling teenagers obviously there on a date, on up to a few retirees. After consideration, Aziraphale drifted to stand with an awkward clump of people who didn’t seem to know what to do with their hands as they waited; with luck, he’d be able to snag one of the nervous people as a partner. That would be much more reassuring than working with the brashly confident woman over there, or the gentleman taking appalling selfies. Or Shadwell.

Their instructor, a thirties-ish man with a white apron and dimples, called the class to attention. “Welcome to our Pasta Perfection workshop, everyone. Today we’ll be learning how to make gnocchi from scratch, and how to pair different sauces with different pasta shapes. If you will, please pick a partner and find an empty workstation.”

Aziraphale smiled hopefully at the people around him, but somehow failed to catch anyone’s eye. All too quickly, there was only one other rumpled, uncomfortable figure left standing alone.

“Of course,” Aziraphale muttered, then grimaced in what he hoped looked like a welcoming smile. “Mr. Shadwell, shall we?”

  


*** ***

The drive home was quiet, but not an empty quiet. Aziraphale sat with wounded dignity, refusing to look anywhere but out the passenger-side window. Crowley kept biting his lip, trying not to grin.

Eventually, Crowley said, “I thought it was very unfair of them to kick you out.”

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

“Come on, angel. It can’t be the first time they’ve had a food fight. It was funny!”

“It was not!” Aziraphale turned furious blue eyes on him, quivering. “I shall never be able to show my face there again, and it’s all Mr. Shadwell’s fault.”

“I seem to remember you upending a bowl of chopped tomatoes over him,” Crowley said mildly.

“Yes, but he started it! It wasn’t my fault he couldn’t form the gnocchi properly. There was no call for him to start throwing them at me.”

“To be fair, you weren’t very patient with him. Calling him a useless, clumsy oaf wasn’t very angelic of you.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “As has been pointed out, I have never been a particularly good angel.”

“For my money, you’re the best angel ever — the only really good one.” Crowley pulled into his usual parking spot in front of the bookshop and turned to face him, taking his hands gently. “Tell you what: I’ll pull up some cooking videos on Youtube, and we’ll make pasta together, all right?”

“You don’t even eat,” Aziraphale protested, but there was no fire in it.

“Doesn’t matter. I like doing things with you, angel. I like seeing you happy. Hold on, I think you’ve got some basil right here.” His long fingers plucked out a few leaf fragments from Aziraphale’s hair. “And I promise not to throw food at you unless you really, really deserve it.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle. “And if you really, really deserve it?”

“You have my permission to throw all the food you want at me. Anything for my angel.”

“And if your angel needs a kiss after that debacle?”

Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, heedless of the Bentley’s gearshift. “Whatever my angel wants, he gets.”

The kiss definitely made up for the evening’s indignities, and then some.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ties in somewhat with [A Hobby for Shadwell,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20904377) but reading that is not necessary for understanding.


	7. Taste Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #9 for Fictober19: "There is a certain taste to it."
> 
> Crowley challenges Aziraphale's sensitive palate. (Not _that_ way. At least not that we see.)

Getting Aziraphale to allow a television in the back room of his shop had been interesting. The angel had taken to a few elements of the twenty-first century like a duck to another duck that the first duck really liked -- he had been terrorizing other bidders at online rare book auctions for years, and had nearly gotten the hang of ordering delivery on his elderly desktop computer. The computer, Yertle, was far too old to have any business even connecting to the internet, but since Aziraphale expected it to, it did. (Mobile phones were still a challenge, but Crowley was working on it. Progress would be increased if Aziraphale didn't sporadically pretend to have presbyopia and claim he couldn't see the words on the phone screen.)

Television, though, he resolutely resisted. It did not bring food, or new books for his hoard, or Regency snuffboxes, or anything worth while. It wasn't until Crowley thought to point out _Antiques Roadshow UK, Bake Off, _and Jamie Oliver that the walls began, very slightly, to crack. When he mentioned how Bluetooth headphones meant that one person (Crowley) could watch James Bond movies without disturbing anyone else (Aziraphale) with the noise, the mortar between the bricks of the wall started to flake off. When Crowley found a sleek, modern, experimental-model television that actually retracted into its base, hiding itself like something sleek and sinister and not coincidentally _not_ blocking access to bookshelves, the walls crumbled completely.

“This is actually quite lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale mused, running a hand absently through Crowley’s hair. They’d determined early on that the ideal viewing position was the angel sitting on the battered sofa, with Crowley sprawled out and resting his head in Aziraphale’s lap. “I’m so glad you talked me into getting a televisual contraption. Oh, look: it’s another cookery show up next!”

“It’s the bloody Food Network, angel. Of course it’s going to be another food show up next. What were you expecting, Sir David Attenborough?”

“Oh, hush, foul fiend.” Aziraphale booped him gently on the nose. “Oh, it’s that sweary one. I like him.”

“Huh. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be your type.”

“Silly boy! I don’t mean I _like him_. Although he is not entirely unattractive, for a human.” He smiled fondly when Crowley stuck out his tongue. “I mean he reminds me a little bit of you. Very tough and sweary on the outside, but he’s actually quite kind. He just has high standards. I saw one of his shows with children, and he was so patient and supportive of them. Reminded me of you with Warlock.”

Crowley frowned at the white-clad man on the screen, evaluating. “Right now he reminds me more of me with my plants.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Yes, he is a bit hard on the new cooks, isn’t he? Ooh, he’s going to do the blindfold thing.”

“Ngk?” Crowley had not been expecting blindfolds. This was a pre-watershed program, he’d been sure.

“It’s a blind taste test, to evaluate one’s palate. See if you can identify foods without visual cues.”

They watched in silence as the competitors tried and failed to identify basic foodstuffs. Crowley felt a twinge of sympathy, not that he’d admit it; most food tasted bland and ashen to him, and he was impressed that they’d gotten any guesses right. Aziraphale was, however, not so kind.

“Imagine not being able to tell the difference between a potato and a parsnip! What a galoot.”

“Galoot?” Crowley sat up, appalled.

“A sap. Idiot. Fool.”

“I know what a galoot is, angel. I just didn’t expect to ever hear you say that word.” Crowley sighed. “Who am I kidding? I should consider myself lucky you didn’t say ‘fopdoodle.’”

“He’s that, too.”

“It’s very easy for you to sit there and judge, you know. I bet you couldn’t do much better than that lot, if you didn’t know what you were eating and couldn’t see anything.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “All right, you’re on. What are the stakes?”

“If I win, you have to try sleeping. Not just reading while I sleep: actually get your head down and kip.”

“Agreed. And when I win,” Aziraphale did that hideously cute thing with his eyes, glancing down and then cutting them back up at Crowley, “you will allow me to tell you how _nice_ and _wonderful _and _kind_ you are, for a full five minutes without complaining.”

“And you call me a fiend!”

A bit of rummaging around found an old tartan ascot that would serve well as a blindfold; Crowley tied it carefully, checking to make sure it wasn’t too tight and trying to ignore the angel’s happy wiggle. Best not to think on that too thoroughly; probably it was just anticipation of winning that made Aziraphale hum to himself. Crowley pulled up a random ingredient generator on his phone, and started miracling up food samples.

“Plum. Not a very ripe one.”

“Nobody said anything about ripeness, but you’re right.”

“Chicken; breast, not thigh. May I get a sip of wine, dear? Just a palate cleanse. Thank you. Tofu. Silken, I think; not water packed.”

“Tofu, yes, but it’s not anything-packed. I’m just miracling these things up.”

“Regardless: it is clearly from a UHT pack.” They worked their way through a dozen more samples. “ Ah, that cheese — gouda, I believe.”

“If you think I’m going to make a pun about gouda, angel. . . .”

“I would never think such a dreadful thing about you, my wily old serpent.”

“Thank you. But I guess you’ve proved your point. You’ve guessed them all right.”

“Oh, wonderful. But just one more, maybe? Just to make sure.” Even with the blindfold, Aziraphale had a stunningly effective pout.

“All right, then. I can’t say no to you, but I know it’s just because you like me feeding you.”

Wiggling a little, Aziraphale popped his mouth open, waiting for the next tidbit. If Crowley had been more alert, he would have been prepared. As it was, the hand that grabbed his wrist with the next morsel of food (white chocolate, with dried raspberries in) caught him totally off guard.

Aziraphale guided the food closer and nibbled, his lips brushing Crowley’s fingertips. “Mmm, white chocolate. Something else in it, though.” The tidbit had been devoured, but his hand was being drawn inexorably farther forward. “Strawberries, perhaps? No, raspberries.” A tongue flickered across Crowley’s finger, and teeth nipped playfully. “And this: so familiar, so redolent of something lovely, there’s a certain taste to it, but I can’t tell precisely what.”

“Grfl.”

“It’s absolutely scrummy, whatever it is.” And now Aziraphale gave the finger a quick suck, and Crowley’s knees threatened to give out. “Ah, I think I know now.” Aziraphale pulled off the blindfold with his free hand, and gazed up at Crowley adoringly. “It’s the taste of home, of being cherished and loved and protected. It’s the taste of my beloved, my dear heart, my darling. My Crowley.”

“Yours,” Crowley managed; the angel was peppering his hand with tiny butterfly kisses, and his thoughts were sluggish. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some composure. “So I guess you win.”

“Dearest, I won the day I fell in love with you. However,” Aziraphale added with a smirk, pulling the demon down onto his lap, “I do still intend to hold you to our bargain. And I intend to begin now.”

It was an excruciating five minutes, being complimented and praised and coddled and cuddled, but Crowley wouldn’t have traded it for anything. He might even have to arrange a similar wager again soon.


	8. Of Daylilies and FaceTwitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fictober prompt #12: What if I don't see it?
> 
> Aziraphale goes to pick up a new plant for his beloved.

“Oh, this is hopeless.”

Aziraphale was trapped, green on every side. Well, perhaps _trapped_ was too strong a word, but he certainly felt overwhelmed and irritable and the humidity was making his curls frizz and making him sticky. _Sticky_, Aziraphale felt strongly, was a word that should be applied to buns and rice and toffee pudding, not to one’s corporation.

Still, he couldn’t leave without fulfilling his quest. He couldn’t possibly disappoint Crowley like that.

It was supposed to be quick errand, just a stop before visiting that charming boulangerie that had opened recently, but he’d already been here twenty blasted minutes without sign of progress. Huffing in frustration, he leaned again over the table, squinting at the labels on the little plants and comparing them to the printout Crowley had given him. It showed a yellowish blossom with frilly edges, surrounded by long, flat, pointed leaves, with the caption “_Hemerocallis_ a.s. (daylily).”

None of the plants he could see were even flowering, which was just rude of them. If he were less frustrated, Aziraphale could have coaxed blooms out of each individual plant with a loving touch to find the right one, but the heat and damp and frustration had gotten him so out of sorts that he feared he’d be more likely to accidentally smite them instead of encouraging them.

It was time to call for reinforcements.

Patting his pockets, he located the computer phone Crowley had forced on him a few weeks ago. It was far too sleek and plain, and the writing was far too small for him when he was in a snit like this, but Aziraphale grudgingly admitted it could come in handy sometimes. He found the folder titled “CALL CROWLEY” and tapped the single icon in the folder to open what he referred to as “Face Twitty” (mainly to get a rise out of Crowley; Aziraphale wasn’t entirely clueless about technology, but enjoyed pretending that he was), then tapped the only name on the list that appeared.

“Hey, angel. Are you okay?” Crowley’s lovely face appeared on the screen, both soothing Aziraphale and ramping up his anxiety. It was rather humiliating to have to call for help over what should be such a simple task for his love.

Aziraphale was about to reply when he noticed Crowley’s wasn’t the only face showing on the screen. “Good lord, do I look like that? How appalling.”

“Front-facing camera was one of mine, I’m afraid. Makes everyone look like a gargoyle. Sorry.”

“You don’t.”

“I’m on the laptop. Better camera. And you look gorgeous, angel, even in gargoyle form. Never seen a hotter gargoyle, ever.” Crowley grinned, probably at the blush the angel could feel creeping up his cheeks. “I guess you’re not in serious trouble if you’re concerned about how you look?”

“I’m perfectly fine, my love. Just, er, about that plant you wanted: what if I don’t see it? I’m at the greenhouse, but none of the plants are blooming right now. Makes it very difficult to find the right one.”

“They should be holding it for you in the back. It’s reserved under my name. Wanted to make sure no one else got to it first.”

“I see. I was trying to find it myself on the floor; the staff are not being very helpful.”

“Pot and kettle, angel,” Crowley laughed.

“Yes, but I assume _they_ actually want to sell their stock. I’ll try again. Hold on.” Aziraphale straightened his already impeccable posture and took a deep breath he didn’t strictly need before stalking over to the clerk lounging behind the counter with his own phone.

“I am here to pick up a plant for a friend. It is reserved under the name of Crowley.”

The youth stirred languidly, blinking at him. ‘Oh, sure. Let me check.” The clerk put down his phone and tapped at the computer on the counter. Humans these days always seemed to need their silly screens. “Crowley — ah, it’s the ‘Angel’s Smile’ daylily, right? Just a sec. I’ll fetch it from the back.”

Aziraphale waited until the human had left before raising his own phone again; Crowley was looking suspiciously nonchalant, face carefully blank. “Crowley, dear?”

“Yes, angel?”

“The ‘a.s.’ In the plant’s name stands for ‘Angel’s Smile’?”

“Ngk. Just a coincidence, promise. I liked the flower, and it just happened to have that name. Don’t go reading anything into it, angel.”

“Of course not.”

“I know how you get all sappy about nonsense like that.”

“And as we all know, I’m the sappy one,” Aziraphale said evenly.

“‘Course. So they’ve got it?”

“They’re bringing it out now, my dear. I’ll just wrap up my errands and see you at home.”

“Great, thanks.”

“With your Angel’s Smile.” Aziraphale’s own smile was, he knew, just a little teasing, but he admitted he was enough of a bastard to like watching his darling squirm a bit. Before Crowley could respond, he said, “See you soon. Love you,” and ended the call.


	9. All Creatures Small and Crotchety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fictober19 prompt 13: I never knew it could be this way.
> 
> Crowley pets a dog, who may or may not bear some resemblance to one of my own personal dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just stupidly self-indulgent fluff, but I like to think Crowley, though canonically not good with animals, secretly wants to give them all the pets and boops and belly rubs.

Crowley is not good with animals. Not for lack of trying, but somehow most non-human animals — horses, dogs, cats, capybaras, etc. — seemed to sense his inner snakiness and see him as a threat, no matter how friendly he tried to be. Or maybe demons smelled slightly off, or it was his aura or something. They just were skittish around him, and defensive.

He accepted this fact long ago, after he greeted a small, fluffy handful of a puppy in Uruk and wound up having to pry her sharp teeth from the fleshy bit of his hand. Honestly, it didn’t bother him. Much.

Except around the angel.

It wasn’t fair. Aziraphale didn’t especially like animals who were not currently on his plate and accompanied by a complementary wine and sweets for afters. He loved them, in that generic angelic way of dutifully loving all creatures, but he didn’t really _like_ them. Yet they flocked to him like cats to the lap of a dedicated cat-hater.

Currently, a gorgeous silvery Weimaraner was resting her chin on Aziraphale’s lap, gazing up at him adoringly as her human chatted with them in the park. Crowley kept his distance; he’d found that about a metre and a half was usually enough to keep most dogs below their stress threshold.

“She absolutely adores you,” the human was saying. “I mean, she’s usually friendly enough, but I thought she was going to pull my arm off if I didn’t let her come over to you. Thank you for being so nice about it.”

“Oh, my pleasure.” Aziraphale’s fists were pressed against his worn waistcoat, and he made no move to stroke the soppy dog’s head. “She’s clearly a very good girl, I’m sure.”

The human finally coaxed her dog to give over worshipping Aziraphale and said her goodbyes. Before she was entirely out of earshot, Aziraphale grimaced and moaned, “The line of my trousers is completely ruined now. The wretched thing left hair all over me — and is that drool? It’s drool. I have been drooled on my a dog, Crowley.” He turned plaintive eyes up at Crowley, who sighed and snapped his fingers.

“All gone, angel.” The blindingly bright smile he got in return never got old, no matter how many times he saw it. He’d spend the rest of eternity trying to win more of those smiles.

“Sorry,” another voice intruded, “but do you mind if we come over to say hello? Tillie here really wants to meet you.” Indeed, another dog was straining at the lead, dragging her human over to their bench. For such a small dog — smaller than Dog, even — it seemed she could put out a surprising amount of force.

Aziraphale sighed. “Just for a moment, perhaps. We need to leave very soon.” They didn’t: they had nothing planned until a late lunch several hours from now, but clearly this was a very doggy morning and the angel was getting fed up with all the intrusions upon his person.

“Thanks. We won’t keep you; usually she just wants to sniff and get a pat, and then she’s done.” The scruffy little black dog did indeed sniff Aziraphale’s trouser cuff and wag her frond of a tail.

But then the impossible happened: Tillie continued on past Aziraphale and padded up to Crowley. She gave him a sniff as well, then sat and gazed up lovingly at him, tongue lolling. Crowley was frozen with shock.

“Wow, she’s normally done by now,” the human said. “She must really like you.”

Crowley was afraid to move lest he break the spell. “C-can I touch her?”

“I think she’d like that.” Indeed, Tillie had shifted so she was leaning on Crowley’s leg.

Slowly, cautiously, Crowley crouched down and reached out to touch Tillie’s shoulder; that seemed safer than touching her head. Brown eyes gazed meltingly into golden yellow, and Tillie began licking his hand as he gently stroked her coarse, long hair.

“I never knew it could be this way,” Crowley murmured, awestruck. “Most animals don’t like me at all.”

The human chuckled. “Well, Tillie has always been a little weird. She’s very persnickety and judgy, and doesn’t really like most people. I mean, she’s friendly enough, but usually she’s done with them after a few sniffs and maybe a pat. This is really unusual for her.”

“It’s really unusual for me, too.” He moved his hand up to behind Tillie’s ear, and she leaned into the rubbing. He was definitely _not_ tearing up. The choking feeling and watery eyes were probably just allergies from his stupid corporation.

“She’s clearly a very good girl.” Aziraphale’s tone was very different this time, warm and fond. Crowley could see the blue eyes shining with growing understanding, and he cleared his throat.

The human seemed to misread this as a cue to leave. “I’m sorry we’ve taken so much of your time. Thank you for letting us say hello — we’ll let you get on with your day.”

Crowley didn’t trust himself to speak, but Aziraphale said, “Oh, we don’t have to leave just yet.”

“That’s very kind of you, but we’ve intruded enough. Come on, Tills: let’s let these nice gentlemen get on with their day.” As Tillie reluctantly tore herself away from Crowley’s ministrations, the human waved. “Thanks again, and sorry for interrupting!”

As Tillie was led away, casting longing glances over her shoulder, Aziraphale got up from the park bench and slipped an arm around Crowley’s waist. “She’s a very good girl indeed,” he murmured. “And has excellent taste.” His smile was soft and uncomfortably knowing.

“‘Course she does,” Crowley said with forced nonchalance. “Stands to reason that, in an infinite multiverse, there’d be at least one dog who could tolerate me.”

“Looks like she did a lot more than just tolerate you, my dear. She adored you.”

The angel was about half a second away from saying something even soppier, like “almost as much as I adore you,” and Crowley didn’t think he could take that. Not in public. Time to change the subject. “Yeah, well, as you said: she has good taste. And speaking of taste, how about we get an ice cream? We’ve got a few hours until lunch, unless you want to go now.”

Aziraphale clearly wasn’t fooled, but his smile turned indulgent and he kissed Crowley on the temple. “An ice cream sounds divine, darling. A perfect addition to an already remarkable day. Lead on, my love.”


	10. For Want of a Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #14: I can't come back.
> 
> Aziraphale has a hissy fit at a book auction.

Aziraphale was ready for battle. The usual pre-conflict nerves fluttered, but his hands were steady and his expression determined. He straightened his waistcoast, checked his posture, took a deep if unnecessary breath, and opened the door.

“Ah, Mr. Fell, welcome.” The tuxedoed server handed him a complimentary glass of champagne. “The auction will begin shortly. Have you had a chance to inspect the lots?”

“But of course. Some especially lovely items this time. Serge, isn’t it? Lovely to see you again. Must find a seat; please pardon me.”

Leicester’s was not the most famous auction house, but those who knew antiquities and rare collectibles generally agreed it was the best. Their vetting process was impeccable, and the more common items were winnowed out and shunted to other reputable houses, because Leicester’s kept only the rarest and most exquisite to offer. They vetted their buyers almost as thoroughly: a pass to a Leicester’s auction was the antiquarian’s equivalent of Wonka’s golden ticket.

_Pity they don’t vet by personality as well,_ Aziraphale thought as a man approached him. Arranging his face to display polite disdain, he said, “Horton. I imagined I might run into you here. Keeping well, are you?”

Horton, a slim, balding man who always somehow reminded Aziraphale of a fish, clapped the angel on the back. Wretched little man. “Very well. Very well indeed. Just here to snag that first edition of Milton. How about you?”

“The same.” The thought of the Milton in Horton’s hands made Aziraphale’s heart clench. The man was in no way worthy of such a prize: he knew his books, could appraise their value to the tenth of a penny, but he didn’t love them. They were investments, not secret doorways to other worlds, or sacred reliquaries of humans who’d died long ago, or monuments to human creativity and cleverness. His approach to books was the closest thing to heresy Aziraphale had ever seen.

Horton just laughed, not seeming to notice Aziraphale’s distress. “Well, may the best man win. Where are you sitting?”

*** ***

As promised, Crowley was waiting for him at the cafe with what was intended to be a celebratory tea and scones. Aziraphale plopped down at their table with a huff.

“Didn’t go well, angel?” Crowley pushed the teacup toward him, and Aziraphale allowed himself a soothing sip before replying.

“I should say not! It was a disaster of epic proportions. Horton got the Milton.” He bit into a scone rather more forcefully than necessary, ignoring the falling crumbs.

“How is that possible? He’s a human — a very rich human, yes, but he was up against all your angelic resources. Don’t tell me you’re skint, angel. Can’t you miracle up all the money you need? If you can’t, I’ve got money. It’s yours; just say the word.”

Very softly, not lifting his eyes from his plate, Aziraphale said, “It wasn’t the money. I mumble mumble mumbled.”

“You what?”

“I got kicked out!” Aziraphale wailed. “They said I can’t come back, ever.” He hid his face in his hands.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, rubbing, until Aziraphale moved away. He was far too cranky right now to be soothed.

“Um, I’m almost afraid to ask, angel. What did you do?”

“Only what any proper book lover would have done. I stood up in the middle of the auction and denounced Horton as a dilettante and a mercenary swine who did not deserve to be there, and demanded that he be thrown out and banned.”

“So instead they banned you.” Crowley sounded as if he was trying very hard not to laugh. “What on Earth got into you, angel?”

“He kept bidding against me.”

“Isn’t that kind of the point of an auction?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Yes, but it’s just so maddening when one of your competitors is such a barbaric philistine. He gets right up my nose.”

There was no doubt now: Crowley was definitely laughing at him, but it was gentle, loving. “My poor angel. What can I do to make you feel better?”

Aziraphale allowed himself to smile back; it was a faint smile, but better than nothing. “I suppose I am being rather silly, aren’t I? Horton will have the book back on the market within six months, and there are other auction houses. Leicester’s will probably forget all about this kerfuffle in a hundred years, anyway, and I can start going there again.”

“But in the meantime, you need a special treat. What can I do?”

Aziraphale mused. “Sushi tonight? From that new place in Mayfair? We can order in, have some of that cabernet I’ve been saving, cuddle on the sofa?”

“It’s a date.” Under the table, Crowley entwined his fingers with Aziraphale and squeezed. “I’ll even rub your feet.”

“Oh, how delightful!”

“Sounds like you could probably use it, after stamping your feet and having a tantrum in the middle of the auction house today.”

Aziraphale shot him a severe look, as severe as he could manage when Crowley’s thumb was lightly tracing distracting circles on his hand. “That is not amusing, darling.”

“Oh, it kind of is. A little. Now finish your scones, angel. I’ve got stuff to do. There’s this book dealer I need to go see. Need to make sure there’s spinach in his teeth all the time.”

“Even when he hasn’t eaten spinach for days?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but smirk, just a little. “That sounds absolutely wonderful, my dear. You take such good care of me.”

“That’s what I do, angel. Anything for you.”


	11. Obligatory Crepes Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #15: That's what I'm talking about.
> 
> Everyone is contractually obligated to write at least one crepes scene. This is mine.

“Tell me this,” Crowley said. “How exactly were you planning on ordering these crepes — the ones you simply had to have, the ones that nearly got you killed because you came over here dressed like an aristocratic ninny? Your French is appalling. It’s execrable.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I usually get by with pointing and gestures.”

“’S’funny, though. I’d’ve thought you’d be fluent.”

“I can read it, of course. Speaking it, though,” here, the angel shuddered delicately. “That’s another matter entirely. Too many silent letters, too nasal. Too _French_.”

“You remember you’re not actually English, right, angel? You don’t have to adopt their national rivalries.”

This earned him a cool glare. “Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley. I simply think that a word should be spelled how it sounds.”

“Right. Because English spelling is so straightforward. It isn’t even standardized; it’s all phonetic, with all these extra _E_s and _U_s and effs for esses. Can’t even hiss properly in writing, just gets spelled as ‘ffffffff.’ Hardly the same effect. And don’t even get me started on ‘ye’ being pronounced ‘the.’”

“Ooh, that’s quite interesting, really. The _wye_ in ‘ye’ is actually a descendant of the thorn letter —”

Crowley tuned out and just enjoyed watching the angel. Even in his ridiculous revolutionary getup, he was adorable, and the way his eyes sparkled as he lectured about the history and theory of spelling lit up the room ten times better than the candle on their table. He was such a dork, and Crowley could never let him know how much he loved him, but it was enough just to sit and bask in his delightful, silly, challenging, maddening presence.

Well, it wasn’t really enough, but it would have to do.

They were sitting in the creperie, and Crowley had just ordered for them in easy, colloquial French: crepes with sugar and lemon for Aziraphale, and a strong coffee for himself. The restaurant was surprisingly swanky, given the revolution going on outside. There were clean tablecloths, real silver cutlery, obsequious staff. Crowley guessed that a lot of chefs for the aristos had suddenly found themselves out of work, and were recreating the upper-class dining experience as best they could for the masses. He’d even had to miracle a last-second reservation to get their table.

“— and as to your complaint about lack of standardization, I have high hopes that Mr. Johnson’s excellent ‘dictionary_,’_” Aziraphale somehow managed to pronounce the quotation marks, “will lead to great innovations in the field.”

“Well, as a demon, I probably should be on the side of spelling chaos, but I’m also incredibly slothful, so anything that makes my life easier is fine by me.”

“I thought you didn’t read, dear.”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Not as such, no. Not a big reader, me. But it’s not like I’m illiterate, angel. Just have better things to do.”

A waiter arrived with their food, distracting the angel from whatever huffy rejoinder he was about to make about the joys of reading. Aziraphale leaned over his crepes and gave a long, savoring sniff; it was like a benediction. “Absolutely delightful.”

Enjoying the heat from his coffee cup soaking into his fingers, Crowley watched as the angel cut off a bit of the crepes and brought it to his mouth. Pink lips parted, accepted the fork inside, closed, curled in a blissful smile. “Mmmm. Marvelous. Completely worth the trip.”

“Yeah, I’d wanted to talk about that, angel. Try to be a little more circumspect in future, okay?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale’s bright eyes had turned slightly worried.

“I mean don’t go wandering blithely into potentially deadly situations. Be a little more careful.” Secretly, Crowley adored playing the dashing hero, bursting in at the last second to save the angel in distress, but deep down, it also terrified him. What if, one day, he couldn’t get there in time? What if he missed his cue altogether? It would save Crowley a lot of wear and tear on his nerves, and a lot of sleepless nights, if the angel would stick to getting into less deadly perils. Tripping and letting Crowley catch him, saving him from a nasty fall, sounded about right: just enough danger to get the adrenaline going, minimal risk of discorporation, and with the added bonus of getting to hold Aziraphale in his arms, however briefly.

“Oh. Well, you turned up to save me, so everything’s all right. Here, have a bite of my crepes! They really are most excellent, and the sauce —”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Aziraphale! Everything turned out okay this time, but you can’t always count on me happening to be in the neighborhood to save your hide. You just go waltzing into these ridiculous situations, and one of these days it’s going to get you discorporated.”

Aziraphale softened. “You worry about me?”

“Wha — ngk, smrfl — no, of course I don’t worry about you. ‘M a demon, we don’t worry about other people. Entities, whatever. I’m just saying it would be inconvenient if you were discorporated. Who knows how long they’d take to issue you another body, and in the meantime, what happens to the Arrangement? I’ll be stuck doing all the work.”

“Of course, dear.”

“Whoever came up with ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread’ obviously never met you. I can’t think of any blessed danger you wouldn’t meander into, your nose in a book or your head filled with thoughts of crepes.”

“Pope.”

This non sequitur stopped Crowley mid-rant. “Pius VI? What about him? Not very popular with the rebellion, I know.”

“Alexander Pope, the writer. _Essay on Criticism._ He’s the one who wrote that ‘angels fear to tread’ thing you mentioned. And I thought he was a very charming and witty man, and admirable. He overcame so many difficulties in his life.”

“Please don’t list them all, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed, then relented and glanced warmly up at Crowley through his lashes as he cut another bite of crepes. “Oh, all right, I won’t. And I’ll try to be more circumspect in the future.”

Somehow Crowley doubted this, but he felt a little better. Aziraphale would try to be careful, and Crowley would keep a discreet eye on his activities so he could intervene when the angel’s definition of “careful” diverged a little too widely from how his blessed Samuel Johnson’s dictionary defined it.

For now, though, he could relax a bit, enjoy his coffee — the French had gotten rather good at coffee, actually — and watch the angel eat.


	12. The Call of the Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #16: Listen. No, really listen.
> 
> A modest camping trip, and unnecessary fluff.

********“How did I ever let you talk me into this?” Aziraphale grumbled as the Bentley turned onto a particularly rustic path. “Camping, of all things.”

Crowley just grinned back at him. “Just wait, angel.”

“I mean, I can ‘rough it’ with the best of them. I certainly did, back in the beginning — but there was no choice back then. Why couldn’t we go to a nice five-star hotel instead of some wretched campsite?” They rolled up to the campsite as he spoke, and Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, my. Is that a yurt?”

“All set up and ready for us. Have a look ‘round.”

This was far from a wretched campsite, Aziraphale thought as he explored; it might even be a five-star campsite. There was a fire pit with teak campaign chairs around it, a hammock strung between two shady trees, a copper bathtub that was puzzlingly out in the open, and the yurt. . . .

“It’s been ages since I’ve stayed in a yurt, but it was never like this,” he breathed, examining the Persian rugs layering the floor, the mahogany chests and vanity, the huge bed piled with pillows and an exquisite linen duvet. There were hanging lanterns, candles, fairy lights. It was as if someone had transported a particularly fanciful and luxurious bedroom into the middle of a field.

“I have, in fact, met you, Aziraphale. Nothing but the best for my angel.” Crowley snapped, and their luggage appeared on the chest at the foot of the bed. “This place is the camping equivalent of the Westin Excelsior. Incidentally, catering is included: the menu is over there. Finest gourmet cuisine Powys has to offer.”

“Oh, Crowley, it’s simply marvelous.” Aziraphale said, looking up at him through his lashes. “I never should have doubted you.”

“That’s what I keep telling you.” Crowley said blithely, but his smile was fond. “Shall we get unpacked?’

*** ***

Starting a fire the human way was more difficult than Aziraphale remembered. He should have let Crowley do it, but he’d wanted to contribute something beyond just being the recipient of all this largess and pampering, to show that he appreciated all the effort his demon had gone to, and in his foolishness he’d chosen starting the fire.

“Oh, blast,” he muttered as the little bits of dried leaves and grasses he’d managed to light extinguished themselves. The faint stream of smoke seemed to mock him.

“Want some help over there?” There was a clink as Crowley set down the wine glasses and came over. (Of course the campsite came fully stocked with real crystal, actual china, proper silver cutlery. Crowley had spared no expense when arranging this rental.)

“Thank you, but I’ve got it quite under control.”

“Listen. No, really listen, angel. You’ll never get it to catch like that, one big log and a bit of kindling. You need a mix of sizes, stacked properly, and —”

The _whoosh_ as the fire suddenly started blazing interrupted him. Crowley frowned. “I thought you wanted to do that the human way.”

Aziraphale pretended to be very absorbed in brushing off his hands. “Well, I changed my mind. It was taking forever.”

“I see.” Crowley didn’t quite chuckle as he handed the angel his wine, but it was obviously a near thing.

“Besides, now we can move on to something more enjoyable.” Aziraphale settled into the nest of blankets and pillows they’d created near the fire pit, and held out an arm. “Come sit with me, my love, and tell me about the stars?”

Crowley sat down and snuggled up under the proffered arm. “Aren’t you tired of hearing me talk about the stars, angel?”

“Never. Tell me about your favorites.”

“Well, you know all about Alpha Centauri by now. How about Betelgeuse?” Crowley scanned the skies, which were so much clearer than in London. It felt like the whole galaxy was strewn out before them, glittering on multi-shaded black velvet. “There, to the south. That one. Big red bugger; going to go nova any day now. I got the balance a bit wrong with that one,” he added regretfully.

“Does it have any planets? Any life?”

“Not unless you could fictional ones.” At Aziraphale’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “Ford Prefect was from a planet near Betelgeuse. Character from a radio show a few years back. A movie, too.”

Aziraphale brightened. “Books, as well. I must read them to you sometime; they’re quite ingenious.”

“Deal.”

Snuggling closer, Aziraphale returned to the matter of Betelgeuse. “Well, I suppose the nova will at least be pretty.”

“When viewed from a huge distance, yes.”

“Whereas some things are much, much better viewed from close up.”

“Er, yes?”

Huffing a little, but fondly, Aziraphale said, “That was your cue to turn your head and kiss me, darling.”

“Oh.” So Crowley did.


	13. The Love Language of Scarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #17: There is just something about them.
> 
> Crowley likes giving Aziraphale presents, but this one has an unexpected backstory.

Love can be shown in countless different ways: a touch on the shoulder, a warm smile, time spent together, tasks taken on to save someone else the bother, little gifts, actually saying it out loud, cuddles, kisses, more . . . vigorous activities. After his great falling out with Heaven (to be distinguished from an actual Fall from Heaven), Aziraphale had enjoyed trying out all the methods with Crowley. He was aiming for a nice mix, though he tended mostly toward words, touches, and smiles. Crowley, though, had always been consistent, for millennia: he showed his love with acts and gifts. Words came harder for him, though practice was slowly easing the way.

“Ready for lunch, angel?” The bookshop’s bell jingled as the door swung closed behind Crowley.

Putting on his coat, Aziraphale said, “Indeed. You’re looking particularly lovely today, my darling.”

“Vile flatterer. I thought angels were supposed to be truthful.”

“I may be guilty of downplaying your appearance, but not of flattery. You look absolutely ravishing.” He enjoyed the faint blush creeping up the other’s sharp cheekbones.

As Aziraphale joined him, Crowley said, far too casually, “Oh, by the way, this is for you.” He handed Aziraphale a tissue-paper-wrapped package. It had tiny silver sparkles embedded in the paper, and was tied with a cream ribbon.

“How lovely, dear. Thank you!” Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek. “Shall I open it now?”

“If you like. Doesn’t matter.”

It was a scarf, in the lightest, most delicate wash of blue. Obviously hand knit, though by someone with enough skill and patience to coax the slender yarn into a pattern of lace that evoked intricate stylized fans, or possibly wings. Judging from the texture, it was cashmere, possibly with some silk blended in.

“It’s gorgeous, darling! I love it.” Aziraphale gave him one of his special smiles, the warmth and joy he reserved just for Crowley. “Wherever did you find it?”

Crowley shrugged, his cheeks reddening a bit more. “Dunno. Just picked it up on the high street somewhere, thought you might like it.”

“Hand knits on the high street? You simply must show me the shop, darling. Usually they only have mass-market stuff, or cheaper hand-made crafts. This must have cost a fortune.”

“Er. Not really. Just a few pounds.”

Aziraphale trusted Crowley implicitly, but he knew utter tosh when he heard it. “Now, I certainly don’t believe that, my dear. It takes hours to finish a scarf, especially a lace pattern like this. Then there’s the quality of the material — cashmere and silk do not come cheaply, poppet, and something this size must have required several skeins. Materials costs alone were probably fifty pounds, to say nothing of labor.” He didn’t mention the emotion emanating off the scarf: it was radiating love, knitted into the fabric like dog hair, though Aziraphale had to admit that wasn’t the most poetic of similes. Dog hair did lodge everywhere, though, and was impossible to get out, so the comparison seemed valid, if inelegant.

Crowley shifted on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Probably from a sweatshop, then. Drastically underpaid slave labor, hideous working conditions, fast fashion ruining the planet. Good choice for a demon.”

“You know that’s not true, Crowley. I’d be able to feel it if it were.”

Crowley heaved a sigh. “All right, fine, angel. You got me. I made it. Are you happy now?”

“Exceedingly. But I had no idea you knit, dear.”

“’S good stress relief. When I start to worry.” He smiled reassuringly at the wounded-sounding “oh” from Aziraphale and continued, “And I like the yarn. Winding a skein into a ball by hand is soothing, like meditation or something. And the skeins: there is just something about them. They’re like fuzzy, soft little pets. Except you don’t have to feed them, or yell at them like with plants. They’re easy. Pretty.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m glad you find it helpful, love, but you know you can always talk to me when you’re worried.”

“I know, angel.” Crowley took his hand and squeezed. “It’s just, sometimes you need something that you can do for yourself.”

“I understand.” Lifting their hands, Aziraphale pressed his lips to the soft, precious skin on the inside of Crowley’s wrist. “But please remember I’m always here whenever you need me, no matter what, no matter why. Wherever did you learn to knit?”

“In Hell. I was stuck down there cooling my heels — you know how it was, they’d call you down there for an update and then they’d be too busy to meet with you, keep you hanging around for yonks — and I got bored. Hastur taught me.”

Aziraphale tried to imagine the Duke of Hell with knitting needles and fuzzy skeins of yarn. He failed. “Hastur. The one with the filthy mac and the rather unfortunate smell of, um, manure?”

“That’s the bunny. Be funny if there were another Hastur running around, but as far as I know there’s just the one.”

“One is quite enough, dear.”

“Good point. He’d made a big black scarf for Ligur, and said it helped him. Focusing on something simple that you can control, and doing one tiny thing correctly over and over again. You can see your progress, your success. It makes a nice change from the rest of life in Hell, certainly. Anyway, he said it was good for handling stress, and suggested I try it. I was certainly stressed, so I did. And I liked it.

“Er, forgive me, dear heart, but I’m having a bit of difficulty imagining a knitting circle in Hell.”

“Nah, fiber arts are pretty popular, but you’re right: people don’t think it fits with the whole ‘big, scary demon’ image. We keep it on the down low, but it was kind of ni — er, enjoyable for a bunch of us to get together occasionally and bring out the wool and the booze, catch up on gossip.”

“But why? I can’t imagine there’s much demand for fuzzy scarves and warm sweaters in Hell.”

“You’d be surprised. It’s in the basement, and it gets damp and chilly sometimes. Quite a lot of the time, actually. But not everyone knits. Ligur did really disturbing cross stitch.”

Aziraphale tried to imagine this. “‘Curse this mess,’ that sort of thing?”

“More like ‘I love the sound of screaming in the morning’ or ’Eat a bag of dicks and die, human scum,’” Crowley laughed. “With flowers and skulls in the borders. He said he liked making art by repeatedly stabbing something.”

“I can imagine.”

“Dagon says that’s why she does needle felting. Well, I say ‘needle,’ but I’ve seen her use her teeth when she’s particularly het up. Makes little wool sculptures in anime style, with the hair the Hellhounds shed. The one she made of Beelzebub was classic; pity they burned it on sight.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re jesting, surely.”

“No! Swear to — to Somebody.”

“So what does Beelzebub do?”

“Macrame.”

“What, like plant hangers and wall hangings?”

Crowley shrugged, but his grin was wide. “I guess they like ropes and knots. So did Heaven have a knitting circle?”

The very concept of Gabriel or Michael sitting cozily with their knitting made a heretical giggle bubble up Aziraphale’s throat. “Not likely. I can’t imagine anything so human as that would be encouraged.”

“So no hobbies at all? Gabriel doesn’t collect stamps? Uriel doesn’t make pottery?”

The giggles were getting harder to stifle. “Sandalphon could bake bread. He’d enjoy punching down the dough.”

“Michael could do paper cutting; she’d like using a razor knife.”

“Oh, she definitely would like that. Sharp and precise and unforgiving.” Aziraphale laid his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder. “I don’t have a hobby, either,” he said, a little mournfully.

Crowley made an “ngk” noise and gestured around the bookshop with his free hand. “What do you call all this, then?”

“Oh. But I don’t think that counts, really. I’d like to do more with my hands. Baking, perhaps?”

“Could do. Or,” Crowley gave him a little squeeze, “I could teach you how to knit. Once you’ve learned, you could work on something simple while you’re reading: two birds with one thingie.”

“One stone, I believe.”

“That can’t be right. What do birds want with stones?”

“I don’t think they want much at all with them. I believe you’re supposed to throw the stone at the birds and kill them.”

“Urgh. Hastur probably came up with that one. Two birds with one birdbath, then.”

“Much nicer.”

“‘M not nice. Just don’t see the point in killing birds for no reason.”

“Of course, my dear. My evil, naughty old serpent.”

“Naughty indeed. And don’t forget it.”

“So will you?”

“Teach you to knit? Sure, if you like. But for now,” Crowley sat up and retrieved the scarf from Aziraphale’s lap, wrapping it securely around the angel’s neck and tucking the ends into his coat, “we have a lunch date.”


	14. The Tea Is Hellishly Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #18: Secrets? I love secrets.
> 
> Eric the Disposable Demon visits with some hot goss.

After all that bother with the failed assassinations, Heaven and Hell had promised to leave them alone. However, Aziraphale had been an angel for a long time — since before time technically began, in fact — and he knew exactly how trustworthy Upper Management could be over the long run. Sensible as always, he’d rigged the bookshop with sensors that would alert him to any other celestial or occult being who breached their perimeter. Forewarned is forearmed, and Aziraphale was sure it was only a matter of time.

The alarms were ringing in his head now.

“That’s far enough,” Aziraphale commanded, tossing his curls dramatically and brandishing his spray bottle. If Hell thought they could hurt Crowley on his watch, they were in for a nasty surprise: under all his outer softness was a fierce, blazing protectiveness, and messing with Crowley was just the way to rouse him. It was all a little thrilling, and part of him regretted that Crowley was in the back room and not able to witness his derring-do. “This bottle is filled with holy water. Hands in the air where I can see them, and no funny business.”

The demon widened his already big, extravagantly lashed eyes and backed against the door, raising his hands. “Hey, I come in peace. Just here to ask you guys to lunch.”

“I beg your pardon?” Not what Aziraphale had expected, but perhaps it was a cunning ploy to lower his guard.

“Lunch. You know, get together, have a curry, a few pints, have a bit of a natter. Catch up.”

“I know what lunch is, you fiend. It’s why you’re here asking me to it that’s confusing me. I had rather been under the impression Hell would leave Crowley and me alone.”

“Well, yeah, Hell, sure. But I’m not Hell, I’m just Eric. I work there, ‘course, but you know how it is. Me and Crowley go way back. The invite’s for both of you.” Eric gave a shaky grin. “Can I put my hands down now?”

Frankly, the demon did not seem particularly threatening, but Aziraphale did not lower the spray bottle. “Oh, very well, just keep them where I can see them,” he said testily. “Crowley?”

“What is it, angel?” Crowley’s voice came from the back room of the shop, where he’d been messing about with his computer phone or something.

“There is a horned gentleman here inviting us to lunch.”

“Wut?” After a few seconds Crowley emerged, and his face lit up in a smile. It even seemed genuine. “Hey, Eric, my dude, my compadre, my droog. How’s it going?”

“Frankly, it’s been better.” Eric batted his remarkable lashes at the spray bottle.

Crowley seemed to notice the deadly weapon for the first time, and leapt forward. “It’s okay, angel. Put it away. Eric’s not one of them.”

“Are you quite sure? He certainly seems to be a demon.”

“Oh, he’s a demon all right, but that’s not his fault. He was just born that way.”

Aziraphale noted the fact that demons apparently could be born as well as Fall, but filed this aside as a discussion for another time. “So you trust him?”

Crowley shrugged. “As much as I’d trust anyone who isn’t you. He’s one of the good ones.”

“Oi!”

“Sorry. One of the likable ones,” Crowley amended.

“That’s better. Er, worse. Whatever — that’s more like it, ’swhat I mean.”

Crowley turned his lopsided grin back to Aziraphale. “Blaming him for all of Hell’s doing would be like, dunno, blaming the Amazon warehouse worker for Jeff Bezos’ policies. He just works there, ordinary demon, gets by the best he can. Not his fault Lower Management are pricks. And he’s not a threat.”

“To you guys? Nah. And even if you weren’t invincible, I’d, like, never go up against you, Crowlers. If they told me to, I’d botch the job on purpose. You’re cool. Never discorporated me even once, all the years we’ve known each other.”

“Well, if you’re sure, dear.” Reluctantly, Aziraphale lowered the spray bottle and returned it to storage its pocket dimension; if Crowley was wrong about this demon, at least the holy water was no farther away than a snap.

Eric relaxed, his shoulders dropping. “Thanks. I really just came by to ask you guys to lunch. Wanted to catch you up on all the hot goss. Got some top-secret stuff.”

“Secrets? I love secrets.” Crowley’s eyes flashed just a smidge yellower, and he smirked. “Let me grab my coat. Angel, you coming?”

There was no way Aziraphale was leaving him alone with this demon, no matter how confident Crowley seemed. “Most definitely, darling.”

*** ***

Now that Aziraphale could examine Eric more calmly, he realized the horns were actually hair sculpted into twin points. His corporation looked young, almost anime-like with his luminous eyes, flashing grin, and heart-shaped face. As yet, he had entirely failed to attack either him or Crowley, but that could just be some clever demonic ruse.

“So what’s the tea?” Crowley said through a mouthful of veggie samosa. Evidently the trick to getting him to eat was to offer him fried savory cakes with potatoes in.

Aziraphale shot him a puzzled look. “We don’t have tea, darling. It’s lager.”

“Means gossip, angel.”

“Oh. I expect they’re all wondering how you survived the holy water, dear,” Aziraphale said tartly, dabbing at his chicken makhani sauce with a roti. He was slightly put out about how nice the food was; he’d prided himself on knowing all the best restaurants in Soho, and here he was, being shown up by a whippersnapper of a demon.

Eric rolled his eyes. “Oh, that gossip is so fourteenth century. Nobody even cares about _that_ any more.”

“Mmmrrph?” Mouth too full now to even try talking, Crowley shot a perplexed glance at Aziraphale.

“No, what everyone is talking about is,” Eric put down his spoon and leaned forward conspiratorially, “Lord Beelzebub and Gabriel.”

There was a long, confused moment of silence. “What about them, exactly?” Aziraphale finally asked, not sure he wanted to know.

Eric looked smug around his spoonful of chole chawal, letting the tension build until he swallowed. “They’ve been spotted sneaking around together. On Earth. Being all furtive-like.”

“Well.” Aziraphale shook his head, trying to resettle his brain. “Perhaps Heaven and Hell have simply decided to open diplomatic relations?”

“Relations, maybe, but definitely not diplomatic,” Eric smirked, dark eyes sparkling. “Word is, they’ve been seen holding hands.”

Crowley choked, bits of peas flying. “What?”

“And canoodling. Earth Observation was passing around photos, and there’s one where Lord Beelzebub is swatting Gabriel over the head with a newspaper.”

“That’s practically foreplay for them.” Crowley looked a bit ill. “Are you sure? Was it really a newspaper? Maybe it was a lead pipe, just magicked to look like a newspaper. That would be more their style.”

“Definitely a newspaper. And,” Eric dropped his voice again, “rumor has it that there’s one of them _kissing._”

Suddenly Aziraphale was no longer hungry. He pushed his plate away, half eaten. “That is, er, remarkable news. Isn’t it, Crowley?”

“Er, yeah. Remarkable.” Crowley’s eyes were unfocused, and he was chewing his lip. “They were kissing?”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

Crowley tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s quite a height difference they’ve got there. Was Beelzebub standing on a box or something?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished, giving his demon’s hand a light swat. “Such speculation is entirely improper.” And even worse, he now had that image in his own head.

“Were there tongues involved? Hands? Over or under —” Crowley jumped as Aziraphale kicked him under the table. “Sorry, angel. It’s just, it’s like a train wreck: you can’t stop looking at it in your head.”

“Indeed. But kindly knock it off, darling.”

“Ooh, slang from within living human memory! I’m impressed, angel.”

Eric seemed to be enjoying their exchange immensely. “See, I knew you guys would want to hear this.”

They spent the rest of their meal analyzing the potential reasons behind Beelzebub and Gabriel’s assignations. Aziraphale, who’d recovered his appetite once kissing was off the conversational menu, was sure it was a ruse of some sort, possibly to lure him and Crowley into a confrontation. Crowley thought Gabriel just had a bit of a kink and enjoyed being smacked around by a short, cranky demon. “Nothing wrong with that, and I bet Beelzie wields a mean rolled-up newspaper.” Eric, surprisingly, voted for love. Grudging and embarrassed and slightly weirded-out love, but love nonetheless.

After Eric paid the tab (“I insist; I invited you. Just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I can’t have manners”), after the shuffle of putting coats back on, Eric said, “So, Aziraphale, is it okay if I come back sometimes to see you guys?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Why ask me?”

“Well, I know you don’t really trust me. That’s cool and all, and I don’t really blame you. I don’t trust most demons, either. But it’s been cool hanging out with people who haven’t tried to discorporate me at all for an entire meal. I’d like to do it again. Not too often, don’t want to get all up in your hair or anything.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and staring at his shoes as if they were the most fascinating things in existence.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, hesitating. Crowley nodded and leaned in to whisper, “He’s lonely, poor sod.”

Eric had been true to his word about not attacking them; he’d been lively company, funny, thoughtful, _nice_. And what kind of treatment was he accustomed to, when his standard for a good meal was not being discorporated?

“That would be lovely, Eric,” Aziraphale said gently. “Perhaps next month, first Saturday? But I must insist you let us pick up the tab next time.”


	15. Of Quiet Contentment and Fainting Couches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #19: Yes, I admit it, you were right.
> 
> An antiquing trip, wherein Aziraphale gets his way and Crowley admits his angel was right.

****Everyday rituals had always been soothing to Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure whether this had something to do with his angelic origins or derived more from his tendency toward anxiety under stress, but there was just something utterly lovely about small routines interspersed throughout the day: teatime, wine time, the cozy fuss that was settling in with a good book, his unnecessary reading glasses, and some nibbles.

Right now it was time for the breakfast ritual. Bread was toasting, filling the little kitchen with a homely smell. Eggs were boiling, tomatoes sliced, beans heating sedately in their little pot. Butters and jams waiting on the table. Crowley’s coffee was almost finished brewing, and the kettle for Aziraphale’s tea was just coming to the boil.

It was a moment of quiet bliss, and Aziraphale closed his eyes to savor it more fully. The only thing better would be when Crowley finally woke up and joined him.

A few minutes later, Crowley appeared, sleep-draggled and bleary, shambling over to the table and dropping into a chair. Aziraphale handed him a mug of coffee. “Thanks, angel.”

“You’re welcome, my love. Anything to eat this morning?”

Crowley sniffed, apparently parsing out the cooking smells. “Maybe an egg?”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale plated his own breakfast, drizzled a swirl of brown sauce over his beans because he was feeling particularly fancy, and egg-cupped a soft boiled. The egg cup was one Crowley claimed to despise, with little horns and a pointy tail painted on, but Aziraphale knew better than to listen to that nonsense.

“I was thinking,” he said, giving his beans an artistic swirl of brown sauce, “that we might go antiquing today.”

“Haven’t you got enough antiques in the shop? And your flat?”

“They were bought from new, so they don’t count. And anyway, I’m not necessarily in the mood to buy anything. I just want to have a poke around. Besides, we’ve talked about that: it’s not _my_ flat any more. It’s _ours._” Aziraphale applied fig-and-cocoa jam to his toast and bit into it decisively.

“Sure, but the deed is still in your name.” Crowley focused on peeling his eggshell away in strips. “Whatever. I get your point, angel. And if you want to go nosing around the antique shops today, I will be delighted to go with you. Doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we do it together.”

Crowley’s hands were both busy with his egg, so Aziraphale settled for giving the demon’s knee a gentle squeeze. “I feel the same, darling, but thank you for indulging me.”

“That’s what I do, angel,” Crowleys said, smiling lopsidedly back at him. “One big indulger, me.”

*** ***

“Oh, Crowley!” He squeezed Crowley’s hand excitedly. “Wouldn’t this escritoire be just perfect for the back room in the shop?”

Aziraphale could feel him holding back a sigh. “It’s lovely, angel, but where are you going to put it? There’s no space, just like there’s no space for the other twenty-five million things you’ve wanted.”

“There’s always space for beautiful items, dear. It would just be a matter of a discreet miracle or two. There are plenty of pocket dimensions out there that wouldn’t mind sparing me a few extra metres.”

“‘Course. You realize that, if you keep this up, you’ll have more pocket dimension than actual bookshop? Humans will start to notice if your shop keeps expanding infinitely beyond the size of the building.”

Aziraphale pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m lots of fun. You’re just being impractical.”

“Lessons on practicality, from you, darling?”

Crowley just grinned at him, maddeningly calm. “One of us has got to be sensible. Right now it’s my turn.”

They carried on gently bickering throughout the next several shops. Crowley managed to block every proposed acquisition — until the fainting couch. It was gorgeous, a Victorian beast long enough to accommodate even Crowley’s sprawled form, with intricate carving along the legs and the wood framing the raised part of the back: acanthus leaves, pomegranates, and (this was what really sold it) snakes. It had been reupholstered, of course, but it was done respectfully, in period-appropriate heavy crimson velvet.

“I don’t care what objections you raise, Crowley. I am getting this recamier!” Folding his arms resolutely, Aziraphale frowned up at the demon.

“But there’s no space!”

“I will move the sofa in the back room up to the flat, and put this where it used to be. We can have a sofa in the bedroom, then, and no miracles will be necessary.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath, then said, “And how do you expect to get this monstrosity home? It won’t fit in the Bentley, and even if we miracled it to fit, I’m not risking her getting scratchedby this thing.”

Aziraphale just smiled primly. “Just wait, darling; it will be perfect, I know.”

The shop did not ordinarily offer delivery, but miraculously decided to make an exception in this case: same-day white-glove delivery, including relocation of the existing sofa upstairs. Crowley protested at this, but Aziraphale overruled him: miracling objects to other locations always carried a slight risk of imprecision if the destination was out of sight, and he wasn’t about to chance dinging his beloved sofa, which embodied so many fond memories.

The actual delivery was a bit of an ordeal, he had to admit. A quick miracle or five cleared a broad path through the shop and flat, so the humans could do the necessary heavy lifting without endangering any books or other treasures, but Aziraphale found the disruption to his carefully organized chaos disturbing. It was also oddly unsettling to have strangers in his private sanctums of the back room and the flat: only he and Crowley belonged there, and he found himself unaccountably resenting the humans’ presence even as he appreciated their help. He barely waited for the door to close behind the delivery people before snapping everything back to its proper, reassuring place, and let out a relieved sigh.

“Thank goodness that’s all over. Tea, darling?”

Crowley shrugged; he was projecting cool indifference, but Aziraphale had seen the tension in his body as he hovered over the delivery people, alert for anything that might endanger Aziraphale’s precious books. The poor dear had worn himself out. “Prefer some wine, actually.”

“Wine it is, then.” Aziraphale went to rummage in his wine stash, returning with two glasses of a rather nice Sangiovese. He handed one to Crowley and settled himself on the new fainting couch, careful to keep his shoes off the upholstery. “Ah, this is lovely.”

Crowley eyed him over the rim of the wineglass. “Better than the old sofa? Was it worth all this kerfuffle?”

Aziraphale made a show of considering the question. “Well, it is rather comfy. But something feels like it’s missing.” He snapped, and a soft cream-colored blanket appeared, draped over the sloping back of the fainting couch. Another snap, and one of his current books popped into his hand. “Much better. But . . . there’s still something missing.”

“Music? Peeled grapes? Scantily clad boys fanning you with ostrich plumes?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It does feel quite sybaritic, but the only fan boy I want is you, dear.”

“Good answer. Shall I change into a loincloth now, or save that for later?”

“Later, I think. Right now, I think I’d like you to come over here and lie with me. Not that way,” he added, seeing Crowley’s eyebrow raised. “Just to cuddle.”

Grumbling something about the indignity of being expecting cuddling from a demon, Crowley set down his glass and ambled over. “There’s not much room. I’ll have to be practically on top of you.”

“That is rather the idea, darling. Here.” Aziraphale arranged them so that Crowley lay with his back against Aziraphale’s chest, and snuggled an arm around his demon’s waist. “Just so. Isn’t that nice?”

“‘M a demon; I don’t do nice.” There was no heat in it, though, and the way Crowley nestled closer, fitting his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder, was far from reluctant.

“Of course not, my love. You just rest there for a while. You must be worn out from supervising the movers so carefully.”

Gradually, the muttering died down and Crowley’s slow, even breathing suggested he’d drifted off. Pleased, Aziraphale read and sipped his wine for the next few hours, sometimes resting his cheek against Crowley’s head or stroking his russet hair.

“‘Snice,” Crowley eventually mumbled, nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Very nice,” he agreed, then added because he couldn’t resist needling just a bit, “Whoever would have thought the recamier would work out so well?”

Crowley groaned. “Yes, I admit it, you were right. ’S a good addition. Totally worth it.”

“I’m so glad you agree, love.” Planting a gentle kiss on Crowley’s head, he sighed contentedly. “So very glad indeed.”


	16. Clipped Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #20: You could talk about it, you know.
> 
> There's a reason Aziraphale avoids letting Crowley reciprocate with wing grooming.
> 
> CW: flashback to peer neglect/rejection.

He’d always thought that Crowley’s wings were gorgeous. Their black feathers gleamed, little hints of iridescence flickering on his tertiaries, every feather aligned and glistening and looking so impossibly elegant. Aziraphale had only seen them a few times over the millennia, but they always left him breathless.

And now he could touch them. Crowley was more fastidious than Aziraphale and his wings only ever needed a touch-up, if that. But, though he’d never admit it, he was also generous to a fault with Aziraphale and never refused an offer of preening. He seemed to know how much it meant to his angel.

“Thank you for indulging me, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured as he finished, giving a last few delicate strokes on the glossy feathers.

“Hnghk. I should be thanking you. That felt amazing.”

Aziraphale lightly kissed the center of the demon’s back, right between the wings. “It makes me so happy to hear you say that, darling. I love grooming your beautiful wings.”

Crowley put his wings away and turned on the sofa to face Aziraphale. “And I love being groomed by you.” He gave a lazy, hopeful smile and said, “Can I return the favor this time? Once I can move my arms again; too blessed relaxed right now.”

Ah. There it was, the only problem with getting to play with Crowley’s impeccable wings: the demon always wanted to reciprocate.

“Perhaps next time, darling, but thank you,” Aziraphale said brightly. Now was the time to change the subject, make his escape. “I’ll go make us some tea; I’ve got a lovely Kenyan orthodox black that I’ve been wanting to try—”

Crowley grabbed his hands before Aziraphale was halfway off the sofa; apparently he was not actually too relaxed to move his arms. “Not this time, angel. Why won’t you ever let me groom you? It’s not fair.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all.”

“Yeah, but I do. This sort of thing is meant to be reciprocal, innit? I mean, it’s a bonding activity, like birds preening each other, or gorillas picking nits off each other.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Charming image.”

“That’s not my point. My point is that it only works when it goes both ways. You give to me, and I give to you, but you won’t let me give. What’s up with that, angel?”

“You give to me so much already —”

“So what difference if I give a little more?”

“It’s just,” Aziraphale swallowed, searching for the proper words. “It’s just not right.” Crowley made a confused sound, so he continued, “It’s just not something that happens. Someone else touching my wings. Inflicting that on them.”

“Angel, you’re not making any sense. There’s a backstory to this, am I right?” When Aziraphale nodded, the demon squeezed his hands reassuringly. “You could talk about it, you know. Help me understand. I want to know what’s wrong.”

Aziraphale laughed nervously, unable to meet Crowley’s eyes. “You’ll think it’s silly. It’s nothing, really.”

“I won’t think it’s silly. It’s obviously upsetting you. Please, I want to know, Aziraphale.”

With a shaky exhale, Aziraphale relented and began the story.

_He'd been returning from a debriefing session with Gabriel when he'd seen the grooming circle. They were in one of the garden squares that used to be so common, little foci of concentrated peace in an infinite realm of peace. A tiered fountain provided a soothing background burbling, fruiting experimental citrus trees twisted and gnarled in the corners, and the little cluster of angels sat in a cozy circle on the tiles, each running their fingers through the feathers of the angel in front of them, preening and straightening and chatting comfortably. _

_It had looked so nice, so welcoming, like love embodied. He could use a little bit of that right now. The other angels usually were distant toward him, but surely they wouldn’t mind including him in such basic socializing._

_So, Aziraphale had tried to join them. It wasn't rude to do so — angels joined social grooming circles all the time, even with those they didn’t know well, budging up to a participant and working their way in with shared smiles and warm glances. _

_It only worked, though, when the circle members acknowledged your presence beyond a dismissive glance, an eye roll, a slightly too pointed turning away. Any wings that he tried to touch flickered away from his fingers, a little too consistently for it to be chance._

_Finally, one of the angels turned to him, exasperated. “Did you want something, Aziraphale? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”_

_They didn’t want him. Whatever sharing was going on, they didn’t want to share with him._

_He'd stammered excuses that no one was listening to, not even the angel who’d snapped at him. It was if he had ceased to exist again. He shuffled away, burning with a sensation he couldn't name then. It was only later that he grew to recognize the emotions all too well: shame, embarrassment, mortification. Loneliness._

“So you see, it’s really all very silly,” Aziraphale concluded with false brightness. “No high drama, no cataclysmic trauma.”

Crowley’s grip was getting uncomfortably tight. “Bastards. Utter bastards.”

“It was their right. Nobody should have to groom anyone they don’t want to, especially someone as odd as I am. A misfit.”

“Even now you’re defending them?” Crowley growled. He shifted off the sofa and knelt beside Aziraphale, golden eyes blazing as he looked up at the angel. “They were being petty, childish, exclusionist pricks. It’s like refusing to shake hands with a human: a deliberate snub.”

“Not every human likes shaking hands,” Aziraphale pointed out. “There are germ phobias, touch aversions, compromised immune systems —”

“None of which was going on here! They had no legitimate excuse to treat you like that, angel. It was personal, and it was petty, and if I ever find out who they were I will make them regret it.” Crowley’s grip tightened on his hands. “They were idiots who couldn’t recognize how amazing and wonderful you are, and I hate that they made you feel unworthy because you’re the most precious, fantastic, maddeningly idiotic being ever.”

Aziraphale laughed damply. “I could say the same about you, my love.”

“Blessed right! We’re two absolutely fabulous idiots, and we deserve nothing less than each other.” Crowley stroked his thumb against Aziraphale’s cheek; apparently a tear or two had escaped without the angel noticing. “Thank you for telling me, angel. And I’d still like very much to groom your wings. Not right now, if you don’t feel up to it, but sometime soon. Whenever you’re ready.”

Tentatively, Aziraphale said, “Perhaps — perhaps we could try now?”

The delight on Crowley’s face made his eyes glow. “I’d love that. If it gets to be too much, though, you’ve got to promise to let me know. Okay, angel?”

“I promise.”

It did not get to be too much. It was, in fact, wonderful, and if Aziraphale cried a little, it was only because he had never before felt so safe, loved, and, above all, _accepted_.


	17. Comfort Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #21: Change is annoyingly difficult.
> 
> After an encounter with an irritating customer, Aziraphale requires comfort food.

Some days, Crowley wondered why Aziraphale bothered to open the bookshop at all. Oh, there were the occasional lost souls in need who drifted in, lonely or homeless or in emotional or physical pain and drawn in by the angel’s welcoming presence, and even Crowley admitted the shop needed to be open for Aziraphale to help them. Unfortunately, having the shop open also drew in potential customers, and it was long-established fact that customers drove Aziraphale completely batty.

“I’m so sorry, but this particular volume is not for sale.” With his pointless reading glasses perched on his nose, Aziraphale gave the customer a tight smile. There was no warmth or humor in it.

“What? It’s got a price label on it.”

“Ah, yes. That is most unfortunate, isn’t it? But I’m afraid it is not for sale.“

From his spot on the sofa, Crowley started to eavesdrop harder, playing with his phone as a cover. This was the point where it usually got good.

“That’s ridiculous! Why was it out on the floor if it isn’t for sale?”

“That is an excellent question.” One Aziraphale clearly wasn’t going to answer.

“Look, just sell it to me. My niece’s birthday is tomorrow, and I need this for her.”

“And how old is your niece? Seven? Certainly not! A seven-year-old would have no idea how to care for such a fine specimen properly. Why don’t you try W.H. Smith’s?”

“I did. They sent me here.”

“Did they.” Crowley could almost hear Aziraphale’s teeth grinding. Usually, relations between the chain and Aziraphale’s shop were peaceful, especially since the angel sent anyone actually wanting to buy books to the other store, but every so often the sprightlier staff members of W.H. Smith’s decided to start a prank war with the stuffy independent seller. It never ended well for them, but Crowley always found it immensely entertaining to watch.

“Well,” Aziraphale popped the book under the counter, “I fear I simply cannot help you. Perhaps you can find something online that would be acceptable to the little darling? If you’ll excuse me, I really must ask you to leave. We are now closed.”

The customer argued and spluttered, but Aziraphale guided him firmly out the door, locking it and flipping the “open” sign around. He glared at Crowley, still sprawled on the sofa. “A lot of help you were, dear.”

“You had everything under control, angel. I’m just here as backup. The brawn behind your brains.” Crowley flexed demonstratively.

Aziraphale looked him up and down, unimpressed. “Oh, good lord. We’re all doomed.”

Laughing, Crowley slid off the sofa and came over to wrap his arms around Aziraphale. “Poor angel. Was the nasty customer mean to you?”

“You’re making fun of me, but he was, actually. He was quite insistent.” Pouting, Aziraphale leaned into Crowley’s embrace and let the demon stroke his hair.

“I think I know what might cheer you up.”

Aziraphale lifted his head, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “Lunch?”

“Lunch. Anywhere you like, angel.”

“Mmm. What do you say to spanakopita?”

*** ***

“This is getting silly,” Crowley said, shoving his hands into this pockets. “Actually, no, I think we passed silly about ten minutes ago. Now we’re into preposterous. Just pick another place, angel.”

Aziraphale cut his eyes at him irritably. “It’s not that simple, dear. I was very much in the mood for Adrian’s spanakopita. No one else does it quite like he does.”

They were standing on the street outside Adrian’s restaurant, which had a handmade “closed for vacation” sign in the window. Aziraphale was tugging at his fingers again, which was never a good sign; he’d already been on edge because of that obnoxious customer, and now Crowley could feel him working up to a full-fledged sulk at being thwarted.

Crowley was not thrilled to be the sensible one, but someone had to do it.

“I know, angel, but there’s nothing we can do. Unless you want to miracle Adrian and his staff back from vacation, just so they can make their spanakopita for you.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and considered the idea for longer than Crowley had expected. “That . . . that would be unreasonable.”

“Right. So let’s go someplace else. How about Halepi’s? If you don’t want their spanakopita, you could get the klefticon. You always like a bit of lamb.”

“It’s not the same.”

Well, obviously not. Crowley bit back his snarky reply and tried again. “How about not-Greek, then? The Ritz? Neptune?”

“Bah. I’m not in the mood.” Aziraphale’s pout was working up to epic proportions as he glared at Adrian’s locked doors.

“All right, then. Is there anything else you are in the mood for?”

Apparently Crowley hadn’t managed to keep the edge entirely out of his voice, because Aziraphale’s posture softened and his hand reached out to touch Crowley’s arm. “I’m being a bitch, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, darling; it’s just been a long day, and I was so looking forward to this. Change is annoyingly difficult when you have such a specific craving.”

“I know, angel,” Crowley sighed. “We can fix this. Exactly what about the spanakopita were you craving? The spinach? The feta? The crunch of the phyllo? The spices?”

“Hmm. I think . . . yes, it wasn’t so much the spanakopita itself, but more the atmosphere. How Adrian’s whole family is involved in running the restaurant, and you can feel the love the moment you step in the door. It’s cozy. After that man in the bookshop today, I feel the need for cozy.”

“Huh.” Crowley tried to think of other small, family-run establishments. “How about Ibrahim’s, then? He’s managed to bring his family over, and you’ve always said his foul is divine.”

A light flickered in Aziraphale’s eyes; it was small, but definitely there. “Absolutely. And his chicken with pomegranate sauce is scrummy.”

“So, Ibrahim’s, then?”

Aziraphale linked his arm through Crowley’s and nodded decisively, looking much happier. “Ibrahim’s. Ooh, and we can pick up a bottle on the way — their corkage fee is really quite minimal.”

“That,” Crowley said as they set off back toward the Bentley, “may be one of the better ideas you’ve had all day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the small Monty Python reference. I could not help myself.


	18. Stompy Boots and Unconditional Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #22: We could have a chance.
> 
> Warlock comes to visit.

“Good morning, darling.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley on the crown of his head, smoothing his impressive bedhead, and set a cup of coffee down in front of him. “Sleep well?”

“Urglh.” The angel had turned out to be a disgustingly cheery morning person, possibly because he avoided the whole grogginess business by rarely sleeping. Crowley was not. He took a swig of the coffee, relishing the heat and the aroma. Aziraphale had already added the three sugars and a splash of vanilla. “‘Sgood coffee,” he mumbled.

“Thank you. One egg or two?”

Crowley was about to moan that he wasn’t alert enough to even contemplate food, and could Aziraphale kindly knock off the cheerfulness before he, Crowley, discorporated, when his phone buzzed.

“Huh. Video chat request. Don’t recognize the number. Wazzit mean when the phone number starts with one?”

“America, I believe. Do we know anyone who’d be calling from America?”

Crowley suddenly felt completely awake. “Warlock.” He tapped the “accept call” icon.

“Hey, Nanny,” Warlock said. His hair was longer than it had been last time they’d seen him, and he looked older. That would only make sense, Crowley thought, since it had been just over four years since the disastrous birthday party. “Is Brother Francis around?”

Aziraphale shuffled into the camera’s view and gave a little wave. Warlock didn’t seem surprised by his straightened teeth and clean-shaven appearance, any more than he’d been about Crowley’s non-Scottish accent and masculine presentation. “Hello, dear. Are you quite all right?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the birthday presents. The fountain pen is great, and I love the drone.”

“That drone is only to be used for wreaking havoc and annoying your security detail,” Crowley said severely. “If I hear you’ve been using it for benevolent purposes, I’m taking it back.” In the smaller picture window, he could see Aziraphale cut his eyes toward him disapprovingly.

Warlock grinned. “Yes, Nanny. Except I don’t have a security detail any more. My dad got fired.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale was clearly torn between sympathy and a most unangelic schadenfreude; Ambassador Dowling had been a deeply unpleasant man. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. He deserved it: up to his neck in shady deals.”

Crowley laughed. “Why am I not surprised? But how did you find my number, Warlock? I’m unlisted.”

“Wasn’t that hard. All your letters use the bookshop as the return address, and it was just a matter of identifying numbers assigned to your neighborhood and ruling out any that actually got paid for.” Warlock hesitated. “So, should I call you guys Crowley and Aziraphale, instead of Nanny and Brother Francis?”

“You can call us whatever you like,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded behind him. “We’re easy that way.”

“It’s just so lovely to get to see you again,” Aziraphale added.

Warlock gave the grimace of a fifteen-year-old torn between affection and the need to preserve some veneer of aloof coolness. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course!”

“We miss you very much, dear boy.” Crowley said, a trace of Nanny’s accent creeping into his voice.

“I miss you, too,” Warlock admitted. “America sucks, and the kids here are all weird. But,” he dropped his eyes, hesitating, “if you really wouldn’t mind seeing me, for real, we could have a chance. To see each other, in person. Y’know, if you want.”

Aziraphale nearly grabbed the phone from Crowley’s hands, but Crowley managed to hang onto it. Just. “Oh, that would be delightful, dear! Do you want us to come to America?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose and silently mouthed “America?” He’d do anything for those he loved, especially Aziraphale, but America’s political situation right now made him want to drink himself into a stupor. It was too much.

“No, actually, I’ll be in London in a month. Just for a few days.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Crowley said, relieved.

“My parents are shipping me off on one of those grand tours for rich brats.” Warlock rolled his eyes. “Two months to see all of Europe.”

“Two months?” Aziraphale sounded scandalized. “That’s hardly enough time to get to know even one city, let alone all of Europe.”

“Yeah, but at least it’s two months away from my parents. So, would it be okay if I see you while I’m in London?” For a moment, Warlock looked much younger than his fifteen years, and Crowley’s heart swelled.

“Of course, my dear. Just try to keep us away.”

*** ***

It was miraculously easy to convince the tour’s chaperone that Warlock should be allowed to spend all his London time with two strange men. The boy had grown lanky and was nearly as tall as Aziraphale now.

“So can we go to Camden Town?” he asked excitedly. “I hear they’ve got some wicked shops.”

“Of course.”

“And Pizza Express? I’ve always wanted to go.”

Aziraphale looked scandalized. “Dear boy, if it’s pizza you want, we can do much better than that.” He caught Crowley’s meaningful raised eyebrow, and added, “But if your heart is set on Pizza Express, then of course we’ll go there.”

“Cool! And I want to see the bookshop.”

“I’m sure Aziraphale will be glad to give you the full tour,” Crowley laughed. “Just don’t touch any of his books, and you’ll be fine.”

“We should do something educational while he’s here,” Aziraphale suggested. “Not all shopping and eating. Perhaps the V&A?”

Groaning, Crowley let his head loll back in exasperation. “Angel, no fifteen-year-old kid is going to be interested in the costume collection at the V&A.”

Aziraphale’s lower lip protruded just a bit. “They have other exhibits.”

“Yes, but you always want to go look at the clothes. I swear it reminds you of when your clothes were still in style.”

“The costume exhibit sounds cool, actually. I wouldn’t mind that,” Warlock said. He glanced up at them nervously. “I kind of like clothes. I was thinking I might study fashion design in college.” He seemed to brace himself for disapproval.

“That sounds so exciting!” Aziraphale gushed. “I’m sure you’ll make a splendid designer.”

Crowley threw a fond arm over the boy’s shoulders. “You’ll do great. Just make sure you use lots of black. Black is cool. Oh, and make clothes for everyone. Boys, girls, nonbinary, skinny, fat—”

“Able-bodied and disabled,” Aziraphale added.

“Yes! And for people with sensory issues. Everybody deserves to live with style.”

Warlock had brightened considerably. “So basically you want me to do everything for everyone, but make it _fashion_?”

Crowley felt a pang of sorrow and anger at the boy’s relief. Given how dreadful his parents were, he probably hadn’t received much reinforcement or support for his dreams. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Warlock. You’re a very remarkable boy.”

Aziraphale added, “We are very proud of you, my dear.”

Warlock’s lip trembled a bit, and he darted in to hug both of them. Just for a few seconds, until his innate teenaged too-cool-for-adults instinct kicked in, but for just a moment Crowley could feel the raw ache for acceptance flowing out of the boy. He swore that the next time he saw the senior Dowlings, he’d jinx them with something hideous for letting _his boy_ feel so lonely and unloved.

Three days passed all too quickly, in a blur of laughter and silliness and earnest discussions about style, symbolism, and the inherent nature of the universe, and soon they had to return Warlock to the tour group, loaded with bags of the finest goth and goth-adjacent clothes, books on fashion history, and the newest and sleekest electronics.

“Now, take care of yourself, and have fun,” Aziraphale said, adjusting the collar on Warlock’s jacket. “I expect postal cards from every major city, understand.”

“Yes, Uncle Aziraphale.”

“And I expect you to disrupt the system wherever you go, and to challenge everyone’s assumptions at all times,” Crowley added.

“Yes, Uncle Crowley.” Nobody could drone tiredly like a teenager, but Warlock’s lips were twitching at the corners.

“Now, give us a hug, and be a good boy.”

“And fight the power.”

One last hug for each of them, and Warlock was stomping up into the tour bus to join the other rich teens; Crowley noted with pride that the boy’s shiny new black platform boots were particularly well suited for stomping. Warlock waved from his seat as the bus pulled away.

“Our little boy is growing up,” Crowley said, slipping his arm around Aziraphale’s waist as they watched the bus shrink in the distance.

“He’s a fine young person, indeed, my dear.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “My influence, of course.”

Crowley laughed. “Of course, angel. Shall we see if we can get him to visit again next summer?”

“Oh, I’d like that. I’d like that very much. Oh, and maybe when he’s a bit older, he can come study in London! The University of the Arts has an excellent fashion program.”

“I’ll see what I can do to convince him.” Somehow, Crowley didn’t think he’d have to work very hard to convince Warlock. Even if the Dowlings wouldn’t support a degree in fashion, even if they disowned their child in a fit of pique and narrow-mindedness about what was appropriate for a regular boy-type Y-chromosome-man-child, Warlock would know he could always count on unconditional love from his weird uncles. Crowley would make sure of it.


	19. Stitch and Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #23: You can't give more than yourself.
> 
> Gossip around a stitch and bitch in Hell. 
> 
> CW: the swearing in this one includes one c-word, so if that bothers you, you may wish to skip this one.

****“Bless it, I dropped a stitch,” Hastur muttered. “This yarn is getting on my last nerve.”

Crowley didn’t look up from the sock he was knitting. “It’s black yarn, Hastur, and the lighting in here sucks. Try putting something white on your lap for contrast.”

Hastur gave him a Look. “And where am I supposed to find something white, eh?” Hell was hell on white clothes. And delicates. And most other things, of course; that was kind of the point.

“Er, right. Maybe just something lighter — your mac might work.”

The monthly stitch and bitch had come up almost by accident. On one of his rare trips Topside, Hastur had heard that knitting was relaxing and decided that he could use some of that; the idea of doing something with his hands when he was anxious besides biting his fingers was appealing, and the metal needles were pointy and shiny and made a nice bladelike sound when they rubbed together. There’d been a learning curve, but even that had been therapeutic when he incinerated the uncooperative scarf and stomped it into its component atoms.

Once he’d got the hang of it, he’d taught a few of the others, and things just evolved from there.

“We need better lighting,” Eric 1 said. Two of him were cooperating to wind a skein, one holding the great loop of unwound yarn, the other wrapping it into a ball. “Why don’t we go Topside next time, maybe in a coffeeshop? The light would be better, and we could get cappuccinos.”

“Can’t smoke in coffeeshops,” Hastur said.

Ligur snorted. “Humans and their laws. Disgraceful, if you ask me. Plus dairy doesn’t agree with me.”

“They can make it with almond milk these days,” Eric 2 said brightly.

“Huh. How do you milk an almond?”

“Oh, I know this,” Crowley said. “You grind it up and soak it in hot water, and then strain. The humans have been doing that since the Middle Ages.”

Ligur considered this. “Hardly seems worth it. Don’t see how you could get much milk out of just one almond.”

Crowley decided to let it drop. “So what are you working on, Ligur?”

The duke stabbed his cross stitch with his needle. “New one. It says ’There is no I in team, but there is a U in cunt.’”

Eric 2 snickered. “Nice one, Lord Ligur.”

For a bit, the silence was only broken by the clicks of knitting needles and the occasional swear. Eventually, Eric 1 said, “So, Crowley, how’s the mystery love affair going?”

“Snrg.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s not.”

Ligur grinned. “Still haven’t made any progress, huh?”

“I told you: it’s complicated.”

Hastur said, “Don’t see why. Just tell them you fancy them. If they feel the same way, all done. If they don’t, set them on fire. You’ll feel much better, either way.”

“Um, yeah. Don’t really want to set them on fire, actually. I want to make them happy.”

“Happy?” Ligur sneered. “Good luck with that. What do you do, show up with presents, like, what, chocolates and things?”

“Er, sometimes.” Crowley stared miserably at his sock in progress. “Things they like. Doesn’t seem to help much, though. I mean, I think they like me as a friend, but — like I said, it’s complicated. I don’t think they could ever feel the same way about me.”

“‘M telling you: set them on fire. Works a trick, promise.”

“I am not setting them on fire, Hastur.”

Hastur shrugged and rolled his eyes. Eric 2 said, “So you just keep giving them presents?”

“Or I do favors for them. Things they’d appreciate.”

“Do they ever reciprocate?”

Crowley hesitated. “Yes, in their own way. But it’s not the same, I know. They’re just doing it because they’re a ni — er, a friendly person. They couldn’t ever love me back.”

“Sounds like you need a new approach,” Eric 1 advised. “You keep giving and giving, and making no progress. You can’t keep on that way indefinitely; you can’t give more than yourself.”

“Wanna bet?” Crowley managed a defiant grin that was almost convincing. “That sounds like loser talk to me, thinking inside the cage. There are no limits to how much I can give!”

“You’ve gone soft,” Hastur said, grinning.

“Yeah,” Ligur said, “soft in the head.”

Sighing, Crowley put his knitting down. “Look, I know it’s stupid and self-defeating and pointless, okay? I just can’t stop. I know it’ll never work and we’ll never really be together. I just want to make them happy, though, even if it hurts me. Okay?”

“Masochist.” Eric 2 grinned.

“That’s all right, then,” Ligur said. “Proper demonic behavior, that. Sadism’s better, of course, but a bit of masochism can come in handy around here.”

“Right.”

“Look, enough about my nonexistent love life already. Let’s have some real gossip. Anyone know what’s got Beelzebub and Dagon in such a tizzy lately?”

Eric 1 shrugged. “Something big’s going down, but they’re keeping mum about it.”

“Something really big,” Hastur agreed. “They haven’t let me or Ligur in on it, either.”

“I think they’re going to collapse the humans’ economy,” Ligur said. “Easy pickings when the humans are desperate and one meal away from starvation.”

“I think it’s a strike against the Opposition,” Eric 2 piped up. “Something really cool, cloak-and-dagger kind of thing.”

“Whatever it is, it needs a lot of towels and hot water,” Hastur said. They considered this for a moment.

“Funny kind of thing to need,” Ligur said finally. “Can’t see them making a major offensive strike with that.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Hastur said. “And from what I hear, you’ll be involved, Crowley.”

“Heh. Great, can’t wait. Probably should go and, uh, get ready, then, I guess.” Crowley packed up his knitting with rather more haste than was appropriate. “If it’s as big as all that, got to be at my best, er, worst, right? See you guys later. Hang loose.”

The other demons looked at each other in surprise as the door closed behind Crowley. “What was that all about?” Hastur asked.

Shrugs all around, and Eric 2 suggested, “Nerves? You just told him he’d have a very important job soon.”

“Probably excited,” Ligur said. “Can’t wait to strike.”

“He didn’t look very excited,” Eric 1 pointed out.

“Nah, it takes some people that way. Very highly strung, our Crowley is,” Ligur said. “Still, I wonder what the job is. I’d give somebody’s left arm to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ligur’s cross stitch pattern exists, and can be obtained from vendors such as katiekutthroat on Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/listing/59049901/pdfjpeg-theres-no-i-in-team-pattern?ref=unav_listing-same-1.


	20. The Most Boring of Virtues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #24: Patience . . . is not something I'm known for.
> 
> Patience is only worth it when the payoff is Aziraphale. Otherwise, Crowley gets restless and cranky.

****

“Why did I ever agree to this?” Crowley groaned and slumped even further in his chair.

Aziraphale just sipped his tea as if nothing was wrong. “Because it will be nice to see our human friends again, dear.”

“We’ve talked about that word, angel.”

“I wasn’t applying it to you, so it doesn’t count. Besides, I’m quite looking forward to seeing Anathema and Newt again.”

“A whole afternoon with Book Girl and a boy named after a slug. Lovely.”

“A newt isn’t a slug, darling. It’s a type of,” Aziraphale paused, brow furrowing slightly. “I believe it’s a marsupial.”

“Is it?’

“Not sure. You could look it up on your computer phone.”

“Bah! I’ve already been through the entire internet while we’ve been waiting for them. I’m sick of it. Where the, the Whatever are they?”

“There’s no need to be tetchy, my love. They probably ran into traffic or something. That does tend to happen when you don’t drive like a maniac.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at that. “I am an excellent driver. Not my fault if the other drivers are too slow and get in each others’ way. And I am not tetchy.”

“Of course not, dear. And they’re not very late, just a quarter of an hour or so.”

“A quarter of an hour we could have spent doing much more interesting things!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “And what much more interesting things would we be doing?”

“Dunno,” Crowley had to admit, adding defiantly, “but they’d be bloody fascinating things, angel. The fascinating-est. Instead we’re stuck here, waiting.”

“Poor darling. The trials and tribulations you go through.” Frankly, Aziraphale sounded more amused than sympathetic, which was annoying.

“If we had to see them, why couldn’t we have gone to Tadfield instead of them coming here? Then we’d at least be doing something.”

“They wanted to come here. Wanting to see London is hardly unusual, after all. Just have a little patience, my love.”

“Patience,” Crowley growled, “is not something I’m known for, angel.”

“Is that so?”

“Well known for not having patience, me. Patience is a virtue, and demons don’t do virtues.”

Soft, strong arms slipped around him from behind, “I could list quite a few of your virtues very easily. Including patience. You waited for me for six thousand years, after all.”

“’Sdifferent, angel.”

“Mmm?” How so?

Crowley wasn’t sure how to explain; wasn’t sure he could in words, not without nearly discorporating from exposing his raw soul like that, even to Aziraphale. Still, he tried: giving the angel what he wanted whenever possible was too deeply ingrained. “It wasn’t all or nothing back then, either us together this way or not seeing you at all. I could still see you, talk to you, take you to lunch. I still had something, a bit of you.”

He felt more than heard Aziraphale sigh. “When I wasn’t getting the wrong end of the stick and storming off, away from you. Did I ever apologize for how I acted? The holy water in St. James’s Park? The bandstand fight? All the other times?”

Crowley reached up and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, still pressed against his chest, over his heart. “No need. I understood. Still do.”

“Still, I acted abominably, and I am so very sorry, my dear. I should never have hurt you like that.”

“Doesn’t matter. You were trying to protect us.” Some of those fights had nearly shattered Crowley, but the past pain was irrelevant now. They were together, and that made everything worthwhile.

“Still, I went about it the wrong way, and I hurt you. I was wrong, so wrong, and I will never truly forgive myself.”

Crowley turned around, startled to see tears in his angel’s eyes. “Aziraphale, it’s all right! I understand, and it all worked out, okay? That’s the important thing.” Rising from the chair, he gently swiped his thumb across Aziraphale’s cheek, wiping away a tear that had spilled over.

“I was so cruel,” Aziraphale murmured.

“You were scared. Rightly so. You’ve always been the sensible one — and after seeing what’s become of Heaven, I have to say I don’t blame you for being scared. Gabriel is insane, and the others just follow after him like little rabid sheep.”

Aziraphale laughed damply and rested his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. “Can you forgive me?”

“Already forgiven. Forgiven so long ago I can’t even remember you being not-forgiven. All right?”

“All right.” Aziraphale nestled closer in his arms. “Thank you. You really are far too good to me, my love.”

“Nah.” Crowley snapped a cold compress into existence. “Here, lean back a little. Your eyes will puff up if you don’t put this on them. Here, sit down.”

“Is that really necessary? I must look a fright if you think —”

“I just don’t want Book Girl and Marsupial Slug Boy to think I’ve been making you cry. Come on, angel.”

Obediently, Aziraphale sat and let Crowley drape the compress over his eyes and fuss over him. “Do you need a blanket, angel? Do you feel cold?”

“What I feel is preposterous,” Aziraphale grumbled, but it sounded more fond than irritated.

“Well, you are pretty preposterous, so that’s all right. My perfectly preposterous angel.”

At that point, the bell on the door jingled. “We’re here! So sorry we’re late,” Anathema called. Aziraphale whipped off the cold compress and vanished it, shooting a _look how you nearly embarrassed me, you wily serpent_ look at Crowley. The demon just grinned.

Behind her, Newt waved a bottle of scotch. “But at least we brought presents.”

“Oh, Aberlour!” Crowley exclaimed, snatching the bottle and examining it. “Twelve years. Not bad, Marsupial Slug Boy.”

Newt’s brow furrowed. “Er, what?”

“Please don’t mind him, he’s in a mood,” Aziraphale said, hugging the newcomers. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Same here. Oh, and before I forget,” Anathema rummaged in her sparkly tote bag and pulled out a paper sack. “The Them send their love, too.”

The fragrance wafting up from the sack was unmistakable, even from where Crowley was standing a few feet away. “Apples?”

“The very best, freshly stolen from R.P. Tyler’s orchard,” she said.

Crowley could see Aziraphale firmly deciding not to hear that last bit. “How delightful! Please give them our thanks, and our love.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley stashed the bottle for later and started urging everyone back toward the door. “That’s great and all, but our reservation was at one and we’re fucking late.”

“I believe you’ll find that it’s been miraculously moved to one thirty,” Aziraphale said mildly as he was ushered outside. “Still, we must get a wiggle on.”

“Wiggle. I don’t wiggle,” Crowley grumbled. “Everyone into the Bentley, now!”

Settling into the back seat, Anathema said, “No wiggling? What about in your snake form?”

“Shut it, Book Girl. Everybody in? Right.” The Bentley’s engine roared to life.

“You may find it advisable to hang on,” Aziraphale murmured over his shoulder to the humans, but it was too late. Crowley couldn’t help but grin at the startled yelps from the back as he and his car lunged forward, finally able to fling themselves into action.

Patience was fine when the payoff was Aziraphale, but in general, it was far overrated.


	21. Ducking Peckish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #25: I could really eat something.
> 
> General nattering and bickering while feeding the ducks.

“D’you ever wonder what the ducks think about us?” Crowley bounced a frozen pea off a mallard’s head, enjoying the irritated squawk and ensuing scramble for the tidbit.

Aziraphale cut his eyes over at him, lips compressed. “I’ll wager I can guess what they think about you, my dear.”

“Come on, they love me.”

“I think you’re confusing the ducks with me. I love you; the ducks, I imagine, find you an infernal pest and only tolerate you because you bring food.”

Crowley grinned. That was the most amazing, wonderful, jaw-droppingly beautiful thing about this new life after the failed Armageddon: the ease with which they could say things like that to each other now. (The bit about love, at least; they’d always teased and poked at each other. For centuries, it had been their main form of conveying affection.) It wasn’t a panacea — they both still tended toward anxiety under stress, and Crowley still had to fight off the dark seduction of self-hating depressive episodes sometimes — but they were free, without fear of repercussions from their former bosses, and they were together. They were both absolute messes, but they were each other’s messes, and that made so much difference. He’d never believed happiness like this was possible. It scared him sometimes, how precious it was.

“Not really seeing the difference there, honestly,” Crowley said, shoving his sappy thoughts into the back of his mind.

Aziraphale chuckled and bumped his shoulder against Crowley’s. “Oh, hush, foul fiend.”

“Won’t hush. You know you love it, same as the ducks love us. D’you think they tell stories about us to each other?”

“What? They’re ducks.”

“So maybe they tell duck stories. Duck tales, sort of thing. After all, we’ve been coming here off and on for hundreds of years; they probably have ancestral legends about us, going back generations. How long is a duck generation, anyway?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea.”

Crowley pulled out his mobile and jabbed at it. “Five to ten years for a wild duck. Bless me, that’s nothing, poor buggers. So say we’ve been coming here for 350 years, give or take. Say 10 years for a generation, just to make things easy. That’s 3500 duck generations. That’s unreal. Their legends about us must be insane.”

“Again, my dear, they’re ducks. And I think you'll find it's 35 generations, not 3500.”

“Humour me, angel?”

Aziraphale sighed as he tossed a handful of chopped lettuce onto the water. “When do I do otherwise?”

“Right, so if we map duck mythology onto human mythology, they must consider us like gods or something. Not _God_ gods, but like, Olympians or Egyptian gods. Lower-case gods.”

“Or mythical heroes, perhaps.”

“Ooh, I like that. I could be Odysseus, famous trickster. Though I’ve always fancied being Set — you know, from Egypt.”

Aziraphale frowned thoughtfully. “Wasn’t he considered essentially a demon?”

“Nah, s’more complicated than that. He killed Osiris, but he was also in charge of chaos and trickery and strangers. Plus, he was ginger.” Crowley landed a particularly choice bit of veg precisely equidistant between four ducks, smiling at the ensuing squabble.

“That does sound a bit like you,” Aziraphale admitted. “So for the purposes of this discussion, the ducks think of you like Set. What about me?”

“Thoth. Creator of writing, god of magic and healing.”

“Ooh, I like that.” Aziraphale considered this. “But ducks don’t have writing. They don’t even have hands; how would they hold a pen? With their beaks?”

“Point. And they don’t have fire, so you can’t be their Prometheus. Maybe you’re their Apollo, then. A shining golden god who brings light and art and beauty everywhere he goes.”

“Now you’re just being silly,” Aziraphale said, but he was blushing and cutting his eyes up at Crowley in that gorgeous way he had.

“Or Asclepius, god of healing. I’ve seen you sneaking in healing miracles on them. You’re really terrible at trying to be furtive.”

Aziraphale pretended not to hear that last bit. “Asclepius was the one with the snake, right? That would fit. That’s the last of the veg, by the way.” Aziraphale considered the plastic sack. “Does vanishing something count as littering?”

“‘Course not, angel. It’s vanished, not there any more.”

“But its atoms are still there, somewhere. I think. They might, I don’t know, contaminate the ecosystem.”

“Shouldn’t think so. Just atoms, not molecules or chunks or something. Its bits go into other bits, make something new. Circle of life thingie.”

“Good.” Aziraphale snapped the bag out of existence. “You know, I could really eat something about now.”

“You, angel? No, I can’t imagine such a thing.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, Crowley.”

“Uh, gotta disagree with you there. Fart jokes, they’re lower than sarcasm.”

“Really, my dear.”

Crowley shot him a teasing sidelong glance. “If you like, I can switch to fart jokes any time. Got a whole slew of new ones courtesy of the Them.”

“I believe that will not be necessary, thank you.”

“You’re no fun, angel. So what food can this infernal pest provide you with? Are you thinking elevenses, or the full meal experience?”

“Elevenses, I think. Perhaps some eclairs? I saw a lovely little bakery on our way over here; we could stop in and get some pastries to take home?”

“Your wish is my command, angel. If you want suspiciously phallic-shaped pastries filled with creamy goo —”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale blushed and lightly slapped Crowley’s arm.

“Well, they are a bit suggestive. The goo spurts out when you bite into it.”

“What kind of penises have you been seeing that you think eclairs are phallic?”

“Didn’t say they look realistic. Just vaguely phallic-ish, that’s all.”

“Honestly, you are a child.”

“Takes one to know one.” Crowley stuck out his tongue, then offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Resting his hand on Crowley’s bent elbow, Aziraphale said, “I’ve quite gone off eclairs now.”

“Come on, angel,” Crowley said as they strolled away. “It’s not like it’s any more suggestive than anything else you eat.”

Aziraphale squawked. “There is nothing at all suggestive about the way I eat!”

“Ha! I should film you sometime when you’re eating asparagus. Or cake, for that matter. The _sounds!_”

“Are you determined to ruin every food for me? I’ll be too self-conscious to eat anything in public ever again.”

Crowley grinned and put his free hand on top of Aziraphale’s. “I’m teasing. I’m sure nobody else notices; it’s just that I’ve been watching you eat for millennia.”

“And you only just now think to mention how disgracefully I behave? How I sound?”

“It’s one of my very favourite things, angel. Seeing you enjoy yourself makes me happy. And hearingyou enjoy yourself,” he couldn’t resist adding, just to see the blush deepen.

“You are a very naughty demon, and I have half a mind to banish you from the table next time I eat.”

“Yeah, you’d never. Not now you know how much I like it.”

Aziraphale gave him a grumpy sidelong look, but he was obviously trying not to smile. “Perhaps not. But you are under strict orders not to _smirk_ at me while I’m eating. Even if it’s eclairs, or asparagus.”

“No promises, angel. I’d do anything for you, you know, but that one may not be physically possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the _Duck Tales_ reference. I could not help myself. Also, apologies for being really bad at titles: my brain insisted on combining an autocorrect joke with a pun. Obviously, I need more sleep.


	22. What on Earth Does It Profit a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #26: You keep me warm.
> 
> Crowley is left to his own devices when Aziraphale goes off book-hunting without him.
> 
> CW: alcohol use and drunkenness.

Crowley led a full and well-rounded life, with many outside interests. True, his world centered around Aziraphale, but there was room around the periphery for many other fulfilling activities: his plants, causing the odd bit of mischief, inspiring the downtrodden to question authority, making life ever so slightly more difficult for obnoxious or bigoted humans. He had plenty of non-Aziraphale-centric things he enjoyed.

The problem was that they were all more fun when he could tell Aziraphale about them afterward.

“Bloody selfish angel, goin’ off without me, leaving me all alone,” he muttered. Technically, that wasn’t fair, but fairness had never been a proper demonic trait: Aziraphale had asked if he’d like to go along on this latest book-hunting trip, but the idea of long, dark, chilly Uppsala winter nights had been untenable. It was only for a few days, so he’d kissed him, tucked in the pale blue lace scarf to keep out the cold, and said he’d be by to admire Aziraphale’s trophies when he got back.

He’d forgotten that London winter nights could be almost as long, and were five times lonelier and darker without the angel. The winter holiday lights and festive shop displays were hollow without him.

“Never mind.” Crowley raised his glass and muzzily examined its contents. “You keep me warm, even when stupid ’Ziraphale swans off to stupid Sweden for some stupid books.” He downed the wine and reached for the bottle. It was empty. “So even you ababanna, ababba — leave me alone, huh? Rude.”

He fetched a bottle of scotch from his stash and splashed some into his glass. Rather more than just some, but who was counting? “Not ’Ziraphale, that’s for sure. Hah! Inna wrong glass. Scotch in wine glass. Angel’d have a fit.” Giggling, he took a swig. The dregs of the wine lent an . . . interesting mouthfeel to the scotch. And for “interesting,” read “made his tongue try to curl in on itself.”

“Never mind, ’snot important,” he said, then giggled again. “Snot. Important snot. Bogies. ’Sfunny.” Oh, how he wished Aziraphale was here to give him that severe look he always hides behind when he’s amused despite himself, to scold him for having the sense of humor of a six-year-old human. Wasn’t half as funny without a fond angel playing along.

Music. There was music playing. Crowley didn’t remember asking his sound system for music, but maybe it had decided on its own to play for him, cheer him up? Could be. He started to sway on the sofa, more than just the drink would account for, and sing along. It was only polite when the sound system was being so considerate of his loneliness. “All I want . . . is what you want; I’m always waiting—”

Wait. That song. There was something important about that song. Crowley shook his head, settling his brain more fully in its socket. “Got to sober up.”

The horrible aftertaste hadn’t begun to fade when it hit him. Not the sound system being uncharacteristically sympathetic: it was his favorite ringtone. He was an idiot. He lunged for his phone and smashed the “accept call” icon. “Angel!”

Aziraphale appeared on the screen, looking disconcerted. “Is everything all right, dear? I was beginning to worry when you didn’t pick up.”

“Nah, just, uh, just in the other room. Took me a minute.” Oh, Somebody, but Aziraphale looked gorgeous, his face filling the screen: his hair was rumpled, as if he’d just pulled off a toque, and his cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed. How could he get away with looking like that? It was absolutely criminal.

“Oh, good. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

“Never a bad time for you to call, angel. How’s Sweden? Get the books yet?” _When will you be home?_

“It’s all set. I was even able to pick up a few extras — the university library was having a book sale, and I picked up the loveliest set of Selma Lagerlöf’s works. They need some repair, of course, but nothing I can’t sort out.” 

Crowley had no bloody idea who  Selma  Lagerlöf was, and didn’t give a bless. “Great. So, um, will you be coming home soon?”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled, and Crowley silently cursed whoever was responsible for high-res phone screens; seeing that and not being able to be with Aziraphale, to breathe in his scent and to touch him, was maddening. “Soon enough. Do you miss me, my poppet?”

“Maybe a bit. Keeping busy, though.”

“That’s good. I’ve missed you, too. In fact, I’ve missed you so much, I’ve arranged for a bit of a surprise for you.”

“Surprise? You don’t need to get me anything, angel.”

“I know, dear, but I do hope you’ll accept it anyway. It should be arriving at your door right about,” Aziraphale glanced down, presumably at his pocket watch, “now.”

With suspiciously good timing, there was a knock at the door. “What are you up to, angel?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale just smiled back, with just a hint of smug anticipation. “Answer the door and you’ll see.”

Grumbling about certain people being unnecessarily mysterious and too clever for their own good, Crowley crossed the room and opened the door. Aziraphale stood on the mat, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“I couldn’t — oof!” The air went out of him as Crowley pounced on him with a hug.

“You’re back,” Crowley mumbled, burying his nose against the angel’s neck and inhaling, filling his lungs to bursting. He’d missed that scent of warm skin and paper and neroli.

“Indeed. Could you let up just a smidge, my dear? You’re quite squeezing the stuffing out of me. Thank you. I couldn’t stay away any longer, so as soon as my business wrapped up I took the next flight home. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Good job. Very surprised, me.”

“Er, may I come in, then? Or shall we just stand here hugging on the doorstep?”

Crowley reluctantly let go and moved aside to let him in. As he brought in Aziraphale’s hideous matching tartan luggage, he said, “Just good to have you back. Wasn’t expecting you for another couple of days.”

“Yes, I can see.” Aziraphale glanced meaningfully at the collection of empty bottles and dirty glassware scattered on every available flat surface. Then he did a slight double take, and stiffened.

“Crowley! Scotch in a red wine glass? You know better than that. Really, I leave you alone for two days and you become an utterly uncultured boor.”

Laughing, Crowley wrapped his arms around his angel again. “A complete savage, totally hopeless. Guess you’ll have to never leave me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ringtone for Aziraphale is “A Red Letter Day” by the Pet Shop Boys, which is also the source of the title. ([Video](https://youtu.be/A-2TaT8dPns) and [lyrics](http://www.petshopboys.co.uk/index.php?path=lyrics/a-red-letter-day).) It’s one of their softer, more hopeful songs, and is one of my favorites for Aziraphale and Crowley.


	23. A Night at the Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #27: Can you wait for me?
> 
> Aziraphale takes an unreasonable amount of time getting ready for the opera.

“Come ooooooonnnn, angel! We’re going to be late.”

“Just a tick, dear,” Aziraphale called from the bathroom, where he’d been getting ready for at least the last half hour.

“Gnrfl.” Crowley leapt up from the bed and began pacing. “Honestly, angel, it’s just the opera. Nobody dresses up for the opera these days.”

“Some of us still have standards.” There was what sounded like the cascade of an entire shelf of bottles falling to the floor. “Oh, bother.”

“Just leave it, Aziraphale! We can clean up when we get back.”

“Won’t be a mo’.”

“Give me strength,” Crowley muttered. Aloud, he said, “Can I help, at least? Clean it up while you finish getting ready? Assuming that will ever happen.”

“No, no; you mustn’t see me until I’m ready. It would spoil the surprise. Can you wait for me just a bit longer, my love?”

As if he had a choice. “Whatever. But if they’re sold out of programmes when we get there, I absolutely refuse to listen to you complain. And I’m not miracling up one for you, either.”

“Of course. You said it’s a period production, yes? Not one of those modern adaptations?”

“I have met you, angel. Would I ever deprive you of the joy of picking apart all the costuming mistakes?”

“I do not do that!”

“Oh, please. When _The Wives of Henry VIII_ put Katherine of Aragon in a French hood instead of a gable, you had a fit. Had to hear about that one for weeks.”

Aziraphale huffed from behind the closed door. “Well, that was just careless on their part. Kate would never have worn something so suggestive, let alone something so _French_.”

“Not really disproving my point here, angel.”

“Hush, foul fiend. You’re distracting me, and I’m almost done.”

“Don’t believe you. You’ve said that before. I think you’re going to spend the next six thousand years in there, doing who knows what.”

“I’m making myself beautiful for you, my dear.”

“You’re always beautiful, angel. You’re also making us very, very late.”

The door finally opened, and Aziraphale stepped out.

“Forget the fucking opera,” Crowley murmured. “You look amazing. Let’s just stay here.”

Seeing Aziraphale in a tuxedo was a rare treat indeed. The sleek black suited him, setting off his pale cheeks and bright eyes. Looking closer, Crowley noticed the angel had done something to play up his eyes: a suggestion of liner and mascara to bring out his pale lashes, a subtle smudge of taupe sparkles across his lids. Even his lips looked fuller, not painted so much as tinted to enhance the natural lush curves and warm pink.

“Not too much?” Aziraphale said, fretting just a bit with his fingers. “It’s been a while, and I’m out of practice.”

“Not too much. You just look . . . more-ish.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew wide open. “I beg your pardon?” he said coldly.

“Nonono, _more_-ish. not _whorish._” Crowley enunciated more carefully this time. “Like my beautiful angel, only turned up to eleven.”

Aziraphale unruffled himself. “Good. I wanted to look good on your arm tonight.” He gave Crowley a once-over. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Well, not now I’ve seen what you’re wearing.” Even the angel’s hair was styled: he’d put some kind of product in it to form the usually unkempt waves into elegant defined curls that glistened in the bedroom’s light. Sighing, Crowley miracled up a tuxedo to match Aziraphale’s, but with a crimson cummerbund and tie instead of tartan. “How’s this?”

“Gorgeous, darling.” Aziraphale pecked him on the cheek, frowned, and rubbed his thumb over the smear he’d left. “Obviously the cosmetics manufacturers have a different definition of ‘smudge-proof’ than I do.”

Crowley grinned. “Leave it. I kind of like the idea of letting everyone know you’ve kissed me.” That earned him a warm smile.

“Shall we go?” Aziraphale produced a black silk top hat that barely showed the cake stains even Crowley’s miracles had been unable to eradicate. “After all your fuss about us being late, I’d hate to miss the first act. There’s no admittance once the overture starts.”

“Not the hat,” Crowley pleaded.

“It’s part of the outfit!”

“Yes, but it makes you look like a complete berk.”

“It’s elegant.”

“It’s a load of uncomfortable memories stuffed into a chimney pipe and wrapped in silk. And it still smells like rabbit poop. _And_ it’ll mess up your hair: don’t want hat head when you’ve spent so much time on your hair.”

The threat of squishing his carefully arranged curls was what did it. “Perhaps not, then.” Aziraphale set down the hat and offered arm to Crowley. “If we leave now, I think we should just make it in time.”

They did. Crowley even made sure there was a programme still available for his angel. If Aziraphale was going to treat their night out as something so special, it seemed like the least he could do in return.


	24. Pep Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #28: Enough! I heard enough.
> 
> Crowley had a heart-to-heart with some herbs.

Crowley’s houseplants were, has been observed elsewhere, lush and vibrant and terrified. He’d had long decades of tending them in his own peculiar way, and rarely had to dispose of a troublemaker these days. They knew what was expected of them and obeyed.

The herbs, though, required special attention. They were for Aziraphale and his cooking, and nothing but absolute perfection was acceptable. Unfortunately, it had turned out to be difficult to terrorize plants that knew they were headed for the cook pot, to be julienned or crushed in a mortar and pestle or sauteed, regardless of how beautifully they grew. The annuals were particularly obstreperous, since even under the best conditions their allotted time was so short. They were all already damned, so what did they have to lose?

Crowley had had to change tactics. He’d moved the herbs to another room so the other plants wouldn’t hear.

“Such gorgeous leaves on you, Basil.” He misted the plant gently, smiling. “You’re doing so well, and I’m very proud of you.

“And Rosemary! Love the new growth. Suits you.” The rosemary shrub was a perennial and should have been susceptible to his usual tactics, but it turned out that a life of regularly having bits cut off for cooking had given her a bleak, fatalistic outlook. He gave her a caress and moved on to the other herbs.

The others — the lavender, oregano, chives, lemongrass — all quivered appreciatively encouraging words, spritzes, and loving strokes. To the uninformed observer, it might have looked much like the trembling of his houseplants, but the energy was totally different. The sage even leaned into his touch.

“So beautiful, all of you,” Crowley murmured. “I’m just so proud. You’ll make Aziraphale very happy.”

His eye fell on the marjoram plant. “Except for you. What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He picked up the pot, examining the crinkled leaves and scraggly stems.

Walking into his living room, he put Marjoram on the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa in front of her. “It’s all right, Marj. Tell me what’s wrong, hmm? I know you’re a good girl and you want to be lush and gorgeous like the others. What do you need? What can I do?”

Marj was, unsurprisingly, silent, but she drooped a little more.

“It’s all right, don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.” Crowley caressed the pathetic leaves. “Maybe you just don’t understand, hmm? Maybe you’re confused and scared. That’s my fault.

“You’re a very special plant, Marj, because you’re for my angel. He’s the best thing in the world to me, and because I want him to be happy, I want you to be happy.”

Crowley sprawled back on the sofa, smiling. “Have you ever met Aziraphale, Marj? No? Well, let me tell you about him. He’s literally an angel, but don’t let that turn you off: he’s not like the others. He’s actually kind, the way angels are supposed to be. Give you the sword out of his hand, he would. And did. Oh, but he’s not sickeningly sweet or anything like that. Can be rather a bastard,” he said, in tones more suited to calling someone a saint. “The other day, this customer had brought in a rather sticky kid, didn’t supervise them, let them run amok. Aziraphale distracted the kid with this stuffed frog that ribbits when you squeeze it — loudly and repeatedly ribbits. And then he insisted that the child take it with him when they left. You could hear the toy ribbiting away halfway down the block. The parent was losing it.

“Loud toys were one of mine, you know. I got a commendation for Tickle Me Elmo.”

Marj remained silent, but her leaves were beginning to perk up a bit.

“Anyway, Aziraphale. He can be pretty fierce when he’s crossed. But he’s been through a lot. His former employers . . . former family, I guess, they messed him up pretty badly. Hurt him. Very controlling, very disapproving, no matter how hard he tried to please them. Even when he knew what they wanted was wrong, and it was tearing him up inside. They rationed his miracles, punished him for trying to help people they hadn’t told him to help, forced him to stand aside and watch when horrible things happened because it was all part of their stupid plan. They made him doubt himself. For centuries. Millennia.” Crowley shook his head. “I’ll never forgive them for that.

“But he survived. They didn’t break him, Marj. Nobody could break my angel, because he’s the strongest, bravest, kindest bastard ever, and I’m so stupidly proud of him. And that’s why you need to be the very best Marj you can, all right? Because you’re for him, and he deserves only the best. He _is_ the best.”

“Oh, Crowley,” a voice murmured behind him. “You sweet, soppy fool.”

Crowley froze. He’d been so absorbed, he hadn’t heard the door open or the angel approach. “Er, how much of that did you hear?”

“Enough,” Aziraphale said, his eyes bright. “I heard enough to remind me of how much I really love you.” He sat beside Crowley on the sofa, taking his hands. “Though I fear your opinion of me is far too high, my dear.”

“Well, I left out all the bits where you annoy the crap out of me. How you talk about my driving, f’rinstance, and won’t let me put my feet on the furniture.” Crowley grinned, and got his hand squeezed in return.

“One does one’s best. If I don’t snipe at you occasionally, you’ll become absolutely insufferable.” Aziraphale gave him a light kiss on the nose.

“That’s me: insufferable. Need you to keep me in line. Thwart my evil wiles.” Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, trying not to giggle.

“A thwarting? Is that what you need right now?”

“Maybe. Keep me from spilling more mushy nonsense about you to your herbs.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed through his lashes. “I do believe I can arrange an emergency thwarting, then,” he said, and kissed him.

On the table, Marj’s spindly stems began filling out with new growth, her crumpled leaves flushing with renewed health. Nobody noticed, but she found that she didn’t really mind; the overflowing energies of love and devotion around her were more than enough for her.


	25. Dove-ling in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #29: I’m doing this for you.
> 
> A romantic walk leads to a battle of wits with a pigeon.
> 
> CW: if birds make you uncomfortable, this may not be the fic for you.

One of the many lovely things about London was its walkability. That wasn’t unusual in Europe, Crowley knew, but he’d gotten around a bit over the millennia and knew that, for instance, a lot of American cities were designed more for cars than for pedestrians. They were missing out on a good thing: as much as he adored driving the Bentley, there was a lot to be said for a casual post-prandial stroll, holding hands with his angel. He could enjoy the scenery much more — and by scenery, he of course meant Aziraphale.

“I swear the pigeons get bolder every year,” Crowley said, eyeing a particularly well-fed specimen who was walking straight toward him. “Piss off, you little rat.”

The pigeon’s mad eyes fixed on him. Rather than bobbing casually out of Crowley’s way or taking to the air, they began pecking at his ankle.

“Oi! Stop that!” Crowley tried to spring out of range, but the pigeon came after him, jabbing and flapping.

“Hush, dear, you’re frightening them,” Aziraphale said.

“They’re bloody frightening me! Hey, not the trousers! Let go!”

“Shoo, now. Go on about your business and stop harassing my boyfriend.” Aziraphale told the pigeon firmly. This had no perceptible effect.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, dodging the pigeon’s attempt to grab his trouser cuff again, “that’s my fierce defending angel. ‘Shoo.’ Why didn’t you try that when,” he noticed they’d attracted human attention and some of the passersby had stopped to watch this unexpected street theatre, “when, uh, our former bosses were all ready to fight?”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, my love.”

“I think — ow! — there blessed well is! I’m being attacked by a mad pigeon, and you’re just standing there — hey! — going ‘shoo.’”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “You know, I don’t think you are, actually.”

“Are what? Scram, you little scunner!”

“Being attacked.”

Crowley spared a moment from self-defensive hopping to give his angel an incredulous glare. “What do you think they’re doing? Asking me to dance?” This earned a few appreciative chuckles from the onlookers.

“No, I think they’re herding you. Trying to lead you,” he walked in the direction the pigeon had been forcing Crowley, toward a grubby alley, and peered in, “over here.”

Aziraphale pointed at another pigeon in the alley. This one had more unusual auburn feathers, but their most distinguishing feature was currently the small cottage cheese pot stuck on their head. “I suspect they’re trying to get help for their friend.”

There were a few “awws” and mutterings from the onlookers. “Stupid bird. What did they expect, sticking their head in something like that?” Crowley said. The first pigeon had stopped pecking once he entered the alley, but stood guard in case Crowley gave signs of wanting to leave.

“I suppose they were hungry. We simply must help the poor thing, but,” Aziraphale gave the small clump of watchers a meaningful sidelong glance, “the simplest solution is out of the question now. We’ll have to free them.”

Crowley balked; using a miracle was definitely off the table, since there were too many humans watching and it would be a huge hassle to rewrite everyone’s memory. “Like Hea — He — Someplace, we will. Call the RSPCA or something. They’re the experts.”

“But it will take them time to get here, and they might fly off in the meantime, or be run over by a car, or attacked by one of those falcons they’ve brought in. The poor thing is defenseless. We simply cannot leave it like that. And besides: their friend chose you.” Aziraphale took off his coat and handed it to a bystander. “Would you hold this for me, please? So kind of you.” He began rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll coax them over, you grab them and get the pot.”

Crowley tore his gaze away from the suddenly bared angelic forearms; he wasn’t accustomed to seeing so much Aziraphale skin in public. “What?”

“Unless you have a better idea, of course.”

“But, but . . .” It was hopeless to protest: Aziraphale was already crouching in the filthy alley, careful not to touch any surfaces. Crowley could feel the angelic influence being extended toward the pigeon in distress, a sort of welcoming, soothing, benevolent siren song. The pigeon stumbled closer to him.

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled. He crept up on the pigeon, now mere centimetres from Aziraphale and thrumming happily. He pounced.

He pounced badly. Whether the pigeon sensed him coming and startled, or whether it was just another instance of Somebody making Crowley’s life unnecessarily difficult for Their own amusement, the pigeon flapped away at the last moment and Crowley’s hands grabbed nothing but air.

“Bless it!” he swore, and lunged again. This time he got scratched by the panicky bird. “Hold still, you fucking feathered bawbag! I’m,” an auburn wing swatted him in the face, “doing this — ow!” A clawed foot caught in his sunglasses, pulling them askew, but they saved him a nasty scratch to the eye. “For you, you daft dobber! Aha!”

His hands closed on the pigeon, and he held them aloft triumphantly. “Got you, you bastard. Ha!” The onlookers gave a smattering of applause.

Aziraphale gave him a tired but fond smile. “Excellent. But perhaps a little less gloating, my dear, and a little more rescuing might be appropriate?”

“Give us a sec,” Crowley said. “I think I’ve earned a little gloating.” Bringing the pigeon up to his face, he growled, “Thought you could get away from me, eh? Ha! Well, I showed you, didn’t I?”

The pigeon tried to peck at him, but wound up just bopping him on the nose with the cottage cheese pot. It made a hollow thunking sound.

“Ungrateful pillock.” Crowley plucked the pot off the pigeon’s head. Mad beady eyes glared back at him. “You’re welcome. Now don’t do that again.” He set the pigeon down, amid more applause and a couple of faint “wahoos” from the onlookers. The first pigeon, the instigator of all of this, bobbed over to their friend and seemed to briefly inspect them for damage; then, without thanks, the two of them flew off.

Dusting off his filthy hands and grimacing, he rejoined Aziraphale. “I feel like I need a shower. One of those decontamination ones.”

“I’m sure our shower back home will miraculously suit,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him. “You’ve got a smut on your nose, dear. Here, let me.” He fished out a lace-trimmed hanky and began dabbing as the onlookers began drifting away.

Crowley squirmed. “Just leave it for now, angel. I’m grimy all over, thanks to that little ungrateful little wanker.”

“I’m sure they are both very grateful, as am I, darling. That was very kind of you.” Aziraphale gave his hand a little squeeze.

“Aw, shuddup.” Crowley ducked his head, but he squeezed back.

“Now, let’s get you home and cleaned up. Such a brave knight in shining armor deserves some pampering, I think.”

“Not shining,” Crowley said as he allowed himself to be led back homeward. “My armor was black, remember? The Black Knight. Yours was the shining armor.”

“A brave knight in gleaming black armor, then. After your shower, perhaps you’ll let me paint your nails? I think you deserve a nice manicure after all that.”

Crowley rolled his eyes so hard the rest of his head rolled as well. “I don’t do manicures, angel. That’s your thing.”

Aziraphale glanced up through his long lashes. “Did I mention that a manicure usually includes a hand massage? A nice, long, slow, firm hand massage?”

Ooh. No angel should be able to tempt like that, but Aziraphale had always been special. “Gnglh. Well, maybe I could try it. Just to make you happy, of course.”

Aziraphale’s gorgeous eyes twinkled. “Of course, my love. You’re so good to indulge me like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meant well and could have miracled the pot off and erased everyone’s memory if absolutely necessary; they also knew they could heal any damage they might cause while trying to rescue the pigeon. Humans and other non-occult/ethereal beings, however, should best call wild animal services for expert help in cases like this. In other words, please don’t try this at home, because, well, duh.


	26. Semantics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #30: I’m with you, you know that.
> 
> The most low-key proposal ever, couched in bickering about terminology.

“That ice cream man was definitely flirting with you, angel.”

“That is no excuse for melting that lolly all over his hand like that.” Aziraphale pulled the flake out of his ice cream and bit into it with rather more force than necessary. “And besides, he was simply being friendly.”

“Friendly? Hah. Wanted to climb you like a tree,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale gave him a severe look. “He was doing his job. People in service jobs are required to be friendly; they are not flirting, and you’re being unreasonable.”

“I know the difference, angel. That man was _not_ just doing his job; he wanted to lick you like that Mister Whippy.”

“Really, Crowley, there is no need to be uncouth.” He was so cute when the tips of his ears went pink like that, and Crowley found it harder maintain a proper sulk when the angel looked like that.

They strolled in silence for a bit. Eventually, Crowley said, “‘Snot his fault, really, I guess. I mean, he has eyes, of course he’s going to go all mushy when he sees you. It just gets up my nose.”

Smiling, Aziraphale reached out for his hand, gave it a squeeze. “You old softie. I’m with you, you know that, and nothing will ever change that.”

“I know.” Even after all this time, it was hard to say the words; there was still a part of his brain that screamed he was unforgivable, he didn’t deserve such happiness and he certainly didn’t deserve Aziraphale, that it was all just temporary and his angel would soon realize how he’d been conned and disappear from Crowley’s life. He’d learned to ignore that part of him, fight it, smother it with a big pile of wonder and joy and contentment until its cries were muffled. He knew it lied. Most of the time, he knew. Today, at least, he knew, but it was always there, lurking.

He gave Aziraphale’s hand a return squeeze. Today, he knew. “It’s just that, after a certain point, I do get a little jealous. Not that I don’t trust you; ’smore that I don’t trust them.”

“I hardly think you need to worry about that, my dear. I can take care of myself. Oh, I admit that I enjoy it tremendously when you take care of me, but that’s a luxury, darling, not a necessity.”

“Not that way. ’Course you can take care of yourself; you’re the bloody Guardian of the Eastern Gate. It’s more,” he trailed off, thinking.

“More what?”

“Um. More that I don’t like them getting ideas, and thinking that’s all right. Them looking at you and going ‘ooh, he’s gorgeous, I _like_’ is fine; that’s just normal.” He ignored Aziraphale’s disparaging snort. “What I don’t like is them thinking you’re gorgeous and that they have a chance with you.”

“I am intimately familiar with that sensation,” Aziraphale said.

“What?”

“Oh, it happens all the time, darling. You ooze temptation, and the poor things can’t help themselves. That gaggle of girls at the coffee shop? Absolutely falling all over themselves to get your attention.”

“Naw. Really? Naw, that’s ridiculous. Wait, is that why you pinched my bum?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips primly. “That might have been part of the reason.”

“So, we both need a way to tell people to back off. They can look but don’t touch, get any funny ideas.”

“I believe the traditional human method, at least in England, is rings on the third finger of the left hand.”

“Marriage?” Crowley missed a step. “Is that something you’d want, angel?”

“Hmm. Not sure.” He saw Crowley’s face and added, “I’m sure about you, my love. I’m just not sure whether marriage is appropriate. It’s a very human institution, and we’re not technically human.”

“Nglh.”

“Besides, is it even necessary? The UK hasn’t recognized common-law marriage for a couple hundred years, but that’s just from a legal standpoint. Hardly relevant to us. From a cultural standpoint, we’ve been together for so long, most people would almost certainly consider us married already.”

“Er. Given this a lot of thought, have you?” Crowley tried to keep his voice casual.

“Certainly! I’ve been researching. It’s important that we know what to call each other.”

Crowley wrinkled his brow in thought. “Seems like you’ve mostly called me your boyfriend.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t want to introduce anything more serious without talking to you about it first.”

“So we’re talking now. Spill.”

“Well, first I researched various terms we could use. We’re not _boys_ in any real sense, so _boyfriend_ doesn’t feel quite right.”

“It’s great, but yeah: not a boy, either of us.”

“And then there’s _lover_, which is just a little too . . . sticky. _Paramour_ is the same.”

“‘Hi, this is Aziraphale, my _luvvah_,’” Crowley said experimentally, and laughed. “Yeah, it’s a bit too squicky. Could be fun, though.”

“In certain contexts, perhaps.”

“Like if Gabriel ever shows up again?”

Aziraphale giggled. “Can you imagine his face? ‘My lover, Crowley. My demon lover.’ He’d spontaneously combust.”

“We definitely have to use that one on him.”

“Oh, I agree, but it’s not for general use.”

“So what is?”

“Well, I thought about historical terms. _Leman_, for instance.”

“You are not calling me your lemon, angel.”

“Spelled differently, darling. How about _soulmate_?”

“Definitely not!”

“_Inamorato? Significant other? Partner?_”

Crowley ticked off the options on his fingers. “First one, only if I can grow a handlebar mustache and twirl it like an old-timey villain in silent movies. Second one, blech. Third one, too ambiguous. We’re not business partners.”

“_Beloved?_”

“Huh.” Crowley tried this one out mentally. “Works for you referring to me, but. . . . ”

“‘This is Aziraphale, my beloved.’ Yes, I see your point; not really your style. More of a pet name.”

“Not that you aren’t. My beloved, that is. Just can’t see myself introducing you that way.”

Aziraphale gave him one of those sidelong glances that always sent Crowley’s heart skipping. “Then I suppose we’re left with _husband_. We can just omit the societal common-law part. Unless you want the ritual of an actual marriage?”

“Nah, not big on ritual, me. Unless you want it?”

“Not at all, poppet. The only important thing is how we feel, not some silly human ceremony.”

Crowley swung their hands a bit, musing. “Husbands. ‘My husband, Aziraphale.’ I like it.”

“So do I. We’ll have to look for rings, of course.”

“Yeah, a big ‘fuck off, I’m taken’ sign for both of us. Hey, you don’t wear your signet ring any more. That could do for mine.”

“If you like, but I’d rather get you one of your own. One with no bad memories attached. Would that be all right?”

“Anything you want, angel. Husband.”

Aziraphale moved closer, so their shoulders rubbed and bumped other as they walked. “I do like the sound of that.”

“So do I.” The back part of his brain, the part where all the self-loathing and despair lived, tried to warn him not to believe it, it was all an illusion and everything would fall apart because of his own innate and irreparable unworthiness, but he squashed it with an ease that startled him. It turned out that _husband_ was the most effective serotonin booster he’d ever encountered. Who knew a little word like that would have so much power?


	27. Into the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #31: Scared, me?
> 
> A.Z. Fell and Co. participate in the Soho shopkeepers' trick-or-treating event.

Aziraphale leaned closer to the mirror as he aligned the second strip of false eyelashes; this one was harder, and it took him several tries before he was satisfied.

“Still think that’s a weird choice of costume for you, angel,” Crowley said beside him, examining his fangs. He’d miracled them specially for the occasion, along with the rest of his costume.

“I think it’s inspired, and entirely appropriate. Alex is a story of redemption through free will, my dear.”

Crowley snorted. “What movie did you watch? Because I didn’t see very much redemption, just a lot of ultraviolence and humans being really awful to each other. No oranges, either, clockwork or otherwise. Good soundtrack, though.”

“I’m only using the cinematographic version as a visual reference. I’m Book Alex, who grows up at the end and chooses to leave violence behind him.”

“Ah, so free will triumphs where science and weird wires in your eyes fail?”

“More or less. No one can truly change unless they choose to do so. It seemed appropriate.”

Aziraphale snugged his bowler hat in place and examined himself. All in white, with light taupe suspenders and black kick-boots he’d asked Crowley to help him pick out, and one eye outlined with false lashes. The hair was the wrong colour, but he preferred to keep his natural white-blond.

Crowley, dressed as a very alluring vampire, slipped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and grinned at their reflection. “I like the codpiece. You should wear that more often.”

“Oh, hush, fiendish serpent.” Turning his head, Aziraphale gave him a gentle kiss on the cheekbone. “You look fabulous, my dear.”

“Nah. Nobody’ll be looking at me, anyway; all eyes will be on you and your codpiece.”

Aziraphale huffed and pulled away. “One more word about that and I’ll reconsider this whole thing.”

“You wouldn’t. Not with all the kids looking forward to this,” Crowley said, following him as Aziraphale moved toward the staircase.

Crowley had been given free rein to decorate the bookshop. Neither of them had much experience celebrating Halloween the human way — Aziraphale had furtively handed out treats when necessary but had always fretted that Gabriel would disapprove, and Crowley had found the whole thing gauche and a little embarrassing, like having to listen to someone extolling the virtues of cake mix when you’re a professional pastry chef — but now that they were both free and officially unemployed, they’d relaxed a bit. Enough to give it a try when the Soho shopkeepers’ association dropped by with their plans for a trick-or-treating event.

“Everything looks marvelous, my dear. I particularly like all the candles and the cobwebs and dust. It’s all properly spooky.”

“Candles are battery-powered. ’M not taking chances with open flames around here. And, uh, I didn’t do the cobwebs and the dust. Those were already there.”

“Oh. Well, that’s lovely; saved you some time, then. And the sweets?”

Crowley gestured toward the door, where he’d set up a little table with bowls and bottles. “Chocolates from that place you like in Notting Hill; regular, vegan, sugar-free options, all fairly traded and slave-labour-free per spec. Colouring books and markers for the non-food option. And I’m rather proud of this bit.” He picked up a taffeta-wrapped bottle and waggled it. “Cask of amontillado for the grown-ups.”

“I’m sure they’ll be very grateful, even if they don’t catch the reference,” Aziraphale laughed as he inspected the chocolates. They smelled divine, and looked even better in their colorful wrappings. “Do we have enough glasses, or did you plan to hand out entire bottles?”

With a flourish, Crowley plucked a napkin from the table, revealing a silver tray filled with gleaming sherry glasses. “Should be enough to get us started, I think.”

He looked so pleased with himself, Aziraphale’s heart swelled with a surge of affection and adoration. “It’s all perfect, my love. You did a beautiful job.”

“Nah, it’s nothing.” Crowley tried to shove his fingers into pockets he didn’t currently have, and settled for crossing his arms across his chest. “Just a little something for the kids.”

“I’m sure they will be delighted, darling.” He checked his pocket watch. “Ooh, it’s almost time! They’ll be here any second.”

Crowley came over, slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s. “Scared, angel? Bit of stage fright?”

“Scared, me?” Aziraphale quirked one side of his mouth. “I’m slightly terrified, but not about this.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m just so happy. I’m not accustomed to that, my dear. It feels unsettling, as if it’s something I’m not supposed to have and it will be taken away any moment now.”

Crowley gave his hand a squeeze. “I know what you mean. But I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not going anywhere, and together we’ll face down any bastard who tries to take us away from each other, right?”

“Right. Damn right, in fact.” He blinked back the tears that had sprung up unwanted in his eyes. Over six thousand years of conditioning from Heaven; his eyes hadn’t been wired open, but he’d still been forced to watch the propaganda, to parrot it back, to change his behaviour in ways that made his whole being ache and weep. He’d been released from that prison, though — he and Crowley had broken themselves free — and now he was able to choose. He had free will, and by the Almighty, he was going to use it.

There was a knock at the door, and sounds of eager children. Crowley kissed him on the cheek, lightly. “Ready, angel?”

Aziraphale squared his shoulders and grinned, the unshed tears already fading. “Ready, my love.” And he stepped forward into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading these silly little fics; every kudo and comment has been treasured, and often made me laugh out loud or tear up.
> 
> When I started Fictober, my goal was to write and post at least five times during the month. Somehow I managed to get something up every single freaking day. (My non-AzCrow fics are not in this work: it made more sense at the time to give [Eric the Disposable Demon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993855), the [Ineffable Bureaucracy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861990/chapters/49588157), and [Madame Tracey and Shadwell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20904377) their own spaces.
> 
> I don't plan to keep up that pace, but I do want to continue writing and posting. If you would like to keep in touch, or just want to say hello, I am [preraphaelitepunk](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/preraphaelitepunk) on Tumblr.


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